The Untold Story
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: Period/Canon Chelsie. What if the Chelsie romance really DID start mid Season 3? Shows the behind-the-scenes realization and development of a love that was rarely shown on our screens, but that was slowly burning behind them all along. **Honeymoon has two M chapters.** Soundtrack for all songs is Ch 37.
1. Tipping the Scale

**A/N: Um, hey there. So, just throwing this new little period/canon fic out there. It's been brewing in my head for a long time now, this idea that perhaps the development of "Chelsie" as we were allowed to see it happened more _behind_ the television screen than _on_ it. And in my head canon, it was officially "begun" at the end of S3, Ep 3. It's not a new idea, but I hope this will be a new take on it. It's a different style for me - short chapters, present tense, un-beta'd, glimpses in some regards with gaps for you to fill in on your own; the intention, overall, is to weave in what we've seen on our screens and add to it in a believable way. We'll see how that goes. _  
_**

**Until I finish _After the Fall_ , this won't be updated swiftly. But give it a follow if you like it, please, and we'll see where we end up. The intention at this point is to have this story go from S3 Ep 3 to post-S6.**

 **As I sometimes do, each chapter will open with a nod to a song, or perhaps a quote. A few come from the same one, but I don't think I'll identify them all yet. Take them as "inspirational quotes," and maybe as a little wave from me to those of you who are music and word lovers. At the culmination of the story, I'll publish an entire song and quote list and put a playlist on Spotify for you all.**

 **If you can, drop me a wee review and let me know what you think! I've missed our period/canon Chelsie! Shout-out to mistressdickens for her tumblr post on missing the non-modern fics, which encouraged me to put this out there months ahead of when I'd intended to do so.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **When it rains, it pours**_

 _ **and opens doors**_

 _ **and floods the floors**_

 _ **we thought would always**_

 _ **keep us safe and dry ...**_

* * *

 _May, 1920_

The housekeeper isn't sure she's _ever_ felt so relieved in all her life. She just keeps walking down the path in a daze, with Mrs. Patmore by her side.

She thanks God for the cook, truly, for this friend in whom she's been able to confide, the one who has (mostly) kept her secret, and who has made sure she was cared for these past several weeks. Their friendship is a far cry from where they started so many years ago, and Mrs. Hughes knows she is lucky to have another woman she trusts in the downstairs realm. She told Mr. Carson that today's was an errand that she had to do for herself, but now she's sure she couldn't have done it _alone._

 _"Your tests came back clear - it's not cancer, just a benign cyst."_

More wonderful words have never tumbled from the lips of Dr. Clarkson; Mrs. Hughes is sure of very little these days, but she's sure of this.

 _Benign cyst._ It is playing on an endless loop in her head, and she notices after a while that her footsteps are marching to the beat of the syllables … or her mind is matching them, anyhow. _Be-nign-cyst ... Left-right-left ..._

"Are you alright?" comes the voice by her side.

Mrs. Hughes turns swiftly to look at her friend. "Alright? I'm _more_ than alright, Mrs. Patmore. Whyever wouldn't I be?"

"You seem … well, I'm not sure. Not as exuberant as I expect I would be in your shoes. That's all. It's nothing; don't mind me."

"I am sure that once I'm able to get a few good nights' sleep, I'll be jumping for joy. Until then, I'm focused on simply getting to the end of this day."

The cook nods, and they progress the rest of the way back to the Abbey in silence.

Once in the warmth of the kitchen, Mrs. Hughes can hear him immediately; he's tucked away in his pantry, and she can tell from the soft clang of the metal and the faint smell of the polish that he's working on the silver.

"He'll be happy to hear," Mrs. Patmore murmurs.

Mrs. Hughes pauses a moment, then whispers, "Why don't you go and speak with him, then?"

"Well, perhaps I shall at that," Mrs. Patmore replies, patting the housekeeper's clenched hands. "Oh, wait, here he comes …"

Mrs. Hughes ducks around the corner, narrowly missing the butler as he enters the kitchen, the swish of her coat undetected by him as his attention is focused on Mrs. Patmore.

"Well?" she hears Mr. Carson murmur, but she's tucked herself into the nearest doorway and misses the next bit ...

" _Is it or isn't it?"_

" _It's not cancer, no. It's a benign … something or other, nothing more."_

 _His sigh echoes through the kitchen._

" _Don't mention that you've said anything. She doesn't know that I know."_

" _I won't say a word."_

Mrs. Hughes hears his footsteps; she re-enters the kitchen as he's crossing to his pantry … _A_ _precarious dance that we're doing around this wall,_ she thinks, but there's nothing to be done about it.

"Well? Did you tell him?"

"I would prefer to say I put him out of his misery," the cook replies with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

Mrs. Hughes smiles, and it's time to make her way back to her sitting room, to do a few tasks before heading up to change her dress; the rest of the world isn't stopping just for her good fortune, and she's well aware of it. There's much to be done to prepare for the following -

Not four steps out into the corridor, she hears him again.

 _Is he … **singing?** Oh, surely not …_

But he _is,_ and she peers into his doorway to see him buffing a silver tray, his soft singing growing a bit louder and a bit higher as the words go on; the longer she listens, the deeper the sound of his voice travels into her heart, planting a seed of something she thought she'd given up on … and then her mind pays attention to the words themselves ...

"Dashing away with a smoothing iron, dashing away with a smoothing iron, dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my heart away."

Mr. Carson places the tray in its rightful place; as he turns back, he sees something flicker out of the corner of his eye; he stops his humming immediately and looks through the doorway, and the polishing cloth slips from his hand. It falls onto the floor, an event which goes wholly unnoticed by him.

He's frozen in place, a flush creeping up his neck, and he can do nothing to stop it.

She moves from her spot in the corridor and steps into the room, lip still clenched between her teeth. Her eyes are shimmering, and he realizes at once that it is a combination of tears and mirth.

"Mrs. Hughes," he manages, attempting to swallow his embarrassment. "I assumed you'd gone up to change for the evening."

"Not yet," she acknowledges, her bottom lip now redder than the one above it, and slightly swollen.

 _That blasted lip again. I wonder … Does she even realize she does it? When she's concentrating, or worried, or confused by something. If only I could touch it, soothe it, perha-_

"Mr. Carson?"

Her voice interrupts his thoughts and he feels the flush more strongly on his cheeks now, clearly brought on by unease and not the effort of the polishing; he is certain that, in this fleeting moment, it is clear to _her,_ too.

She misses nothing, after all.

And neither does he - not where she's concerned. He can't help his eyes as they travel over her hat, her coat, the lovely pale green scarf with the faint print; her hair is slightly mussed under the hat, as though the wind were strong on their walk back to the Abbey -

"You were … singing, Mr. Carson."

Her words bring him back to the present. Her brilliant smile makes his breath catch, and he knows now that she really _has_ heard him, has likely been _listening._

"Well," he rumbles, clearing his throat, "I didn't realize anyone was there to hear it."

A loving kindness appears in her brilliant blue eyes and he almost crumbles on the spot, though from _what_ he isn't exactly sure.

" _I_ was." It's a whisper, so soft that she's not sure if she spoke the words aloud.

She licks her lip then, feels the sting on the small spot she's niggled open with her teeth; wonders, in the now very tense atmosphere that exists in the room, if the risk is truly worth the reward, or if she'd do better to just let it be. And just as she wonders it, she brushes the concern aside; letting things be isn't her forte, after all.

" _Why?"_ she breathes.

He stands up a bit straighter, which she'd not have thought possible until he actually does it.

"I'm sorry?"

She inhales, then pauses ... and then tips the scales forever.

"Was it for me?"

Her blue eyes are piercing him now, and he is - all at once, and all over again for the millionth time - enraptured.

"Was what for you?" he whispers.

Mrs. Hughes would have rolled those piercing blue eyes if not for the almost pained look on his face. She can tell the man is at the brink of his emotional tolerance, and she can't bear to tease him - not now. So, instead, she opts for a different action: she takes another step forward, bends down to pick up the cloth, then stands and hands to him, allowing her fingers to brush his.

"The _song_ , Mr. Carson."

Her voice is quiet - barely a murmur - and yet he can hear it echo loudly in his own mind and heart as though she's screamed the words into his ear.

His lips press together tightly. He moves to straighten his waistcoat, but then remembers he's wearing the blasted polishing apron. He takes a deep breath, and nods - one brief, curt nod, one that she might have missed had she blinked at the wrong time.

The relief she feels is overwhelming, and it washes over her like a sudden, torrential rain; the sense of acknowledgement, of affirmation, after all these years, that there truly _is_ something hidden deep within the man, something for _her_ that might even extend far beyond the friendship they've always had … something that is calling out to that same feeling she's kept buried in her own chest all these many years.

"Well, then," she says softly, a new smile playing about her lips, "I shall leave you to it."

She makes her way through the door, then rests her hand on the knob as she turns to face him once again, catching him out as he stares unabashedly at her, myriad emotions written all over his strong, beautiful face.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson."

He merely closes his eyes briefly and nods a second time; she turns once again to head up to her room and change into her evening dress.


	2. Searching for Balance

**A/N: Bless you, Downton Wiki person(s). Your detailed dates have made my planning this story infinitely easier.**

 **It's been a while since I posted Chapter 1 of this fic. If you've not checked that out yet, please head on back and do so. We'll wait. :) And this entire fic will be unbeta'd, so please pardon any glaring errors.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Learn to pretend there's more than love that matters …**_

 _August, 1920_

It's been three months, and Mr. Carson is more at ease with the new ... _understanding,_ he supposes, that he has with the resident housekeeper _._ He's fairly certain no one else has noticed this change in him, but he feels at times like he's a new man. He had always assumed that the world as he knew it - his nice, safe, orderly, traditional world - would cave in on top of him if Mrs. Hughes ever found out that, somewhere among the glasses of wine and letters during the Season, he'd fallen in love with her. But, instead, he feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. He thinks perhaps there's something to be said for having another person in the world who truly understands him, who sees the entirety of him and not just the _butler,_ particularly in a profession where one of the primary characteristics is remaining invisible until summoned.

 _Not that it matters much,_ he thinks as he walks down the servants' corridor. _Nothing to be done about it, really. Just carry on as we always have._

Except that's impossible, and he knows it. But, then again, so is moving forward in any _real_ way. He's still Charles Carson, after all. And while neither he nor Mrs. Hughes has a tendency to dive headfirst into an unknown, he's certainly the more reluctant one when it comes to actually doing anything new at all.

 _Thus far, at any rate,_ he tells himself. _Although perhaps that can change._

He turns the corner into the kitchen, needing a cup of strong tea to ease him through some particularly nasty bookkeeping he's put off. He sees the look the cook gives him, and for a fleeting moment he thinks that perhaps _she_ has noticed something different about him. But then she doesn't actually _say_ anything – no quips, no mutterings under her breath, no sly twist of the tongue - and that alone is so unlike her that he's sure his fears are unfounded. He thanks her for the tea and turns to head out into the corridor ...

… where he promptly bumps into Mrs. Hughes.

"Oh, good heavens!" she exclaims, watching as he manages to lift the cup and saucer into the air, away from himself and from her. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Carson! You've not burned yourself, have you?"

"No, no," he reassures her, replacing the cup atop the saucer and giving her a wave of his now-freed-up right hand. "It's fine; crisis averted."

"I gather that's fortification for tidying up an as-yet-unbalanced ledger?" She's smirking at him, perhaps teasing him, even, and he acknowledges the truth in her words with pursed lips and a nod.

"Perhaps."

She smiles kindly, with her mouth _and_ her eyes, and he almost _drops_ the cup and saucer as his heart sends a surge of blood through his body with seemingly unusual force.

"Well, at least Alfred seems to be faring rather well," she says.

She knows he's been helping the lad, that it's why he's behind on his other work, but she's not spoken of it before today. She's overheard them once, discussing it behind Mr. Carson's unusually-closed pantry door; she'd raised her hand to knock, but before her knuckles had hit the door, she'd heard Alfred's calm voice. It had startled her and - she freely admits it, but only to herself – she'd quite willingly eavesdropped on their conversation. Something about place settings, but she hadn't quite been able to catch it all. Still, though, the lad had been questioning something, and the butler's sure, steady encouragement had filled her with affection.

Mr. Carson just rolls his eyes as they make their way down the corridor. He waves her through the open doorway first before following her in, passing by her, and setting his tea on the desk. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that _you_ know about that," he grumbles.

She lets out a short laugh, and he has to take a breath to control himself before turning to face her. He's not sure why it's so difficult suddenly, this mastering of his feelings, when only moments before he'd been so at ease. It happens that way some days, and it perplexes him. There's nothing to be done about it, of course, except to lie in bed at night and think of ways to overcome it, ways to bridge this gap that he and the housekeeper both seemingly want to cross. But the _doing_ of it is a near impossibility – at least for now. Nothing has really _changed_ between them - certainly nothing that would border on the improper thoughts that sometimes flit through his sleepless mind, and he's quite sure that thoughts of an improper nature haven't crossed _her_ mind at all.

 _No,_ he thinks. _Surely not._

When he finally does turn and sees her standing nervously just inside his doorway, wringing her hands, his face drops in concern. She notices his attention, evidently, because she drops her hands to her side, choosing instead to gently clutch the fabric of her skirt in the fingers of one hand.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, and she nods, twice - two brief jerks of her head, so uncharacteristic of her, not at all the smooth, fluid, graceful way she usually moves. And it occurs to him for the very first time that while he's felt nothing but relief about their circumstances, it appears now that _she's_ taken on all of his anxiety.

"If you'll forgive me, Mrs. Hughes, I'm not sure I believe you," he remarks, indicating the chair by the fireplace. "Would you care to sit for a moment, perhaps?"

But she shakes her head vehemently now, and he clamps his lips shut.

"Not now," she says. "No … I'm fine, Mr. Carson. Truly. But thank you."

She's not fine, of course – far from it. She's had the weight of the world on her shoulders these last couple of months, during a time when she'd thought her test results would provide some blessed freedom from heavy thoughts. She's finally feeling more like herself _physically,_ but she has no idea what to do with this new Mr. Carson that she sees before her. She's spent so many years envisioning what life could be like if he truly _loved_ her as she loves him, and now that she _knows_ he does, she's ashamed that she has no idea what to do about it _._ She needs time, but she's also realistic; he's in his sixties, and she's almost there. It's quite literally taken the threat of death to bring his caring to the forefront, and given the pace at which the man moves through _any_ sort of change, she fears that time is the one thing they truly don't have. As if that weren't enough, she also knows only too well that steadfastly pulling him toward her – figuratively, of course, despite the rather improper thoughts that she takes with her to bed at night – is the surest way to see this secret they share implode before her very eyes.

 _And it **is** a secret, _she tells herself. _Make_ _no mistake about that._ She's sure of it. Well, perhaps it's not _quite_ a secret to Mrs. Patmore, but Mrs. Hughes is sure that no one else in the house suspects, upstairs or down.

Secrets upon secrets upon worries and more, piled up in her mind. How she ended up the secret-keeper of this great place she'll never know, but she recognizes that it's wearing her down. She's added so much lately to the cacophony in her mind, too: There's her concern for Anna and why the young woman hasn't heard from Mr. Bates in weeks. Residing above that is her fear for the Bransons, newly returned from Ireland - both of whom she cares about more than she'd admit to anyone else in the house. She knows they're suffering and that they both – but particularly Mr. Branson – are struggling to keep the peace within the family, and she's encouraged him with gentle looks and soft smiles when she's seen him about the house or the grounds, something that would infuriate her beloved butler to no end should he ever witness it occurring. Hovering somewhere near the image in her mind of the Bransons is her worry for Mrs. Crawley, for poor Ethel, and for how the intersection of those women's lives is bound to be met with struggle in the weeks ahead. And she worries greatly for Ethel's little Charlie, so loved by a mother unable to truly care for him as he the boy deserves. That last bit eats away at the housekeeper more than the others, because she can't help but feel that it's partially down to _her_ that Ethel is in this situation. Mrs. Hughes knows only too well what an extra four months' salary could have meant for the girl had she been afforded an opportunity to continue working, whether that had been at Downton or in another home - a home where Ethel could have arrived with a tidy reference in hand had Mrs. Hughes chosen to provide one.

And then there's Mr. Carson, whose presence in her mind infiltrates and sometimes overshadows all of these other worries and secrets. This … whatever it is between them, this acknowledgement of a path that neither of them have the time or the energy to embark upon now.

 _If it would even be allowed,_ she thinks, although she worries less about that now, now that she's sure of her value in Lady Grantham's eyes. The woman's words of caring and support had buoyed the housekeeper at a time when not much else could. Yes, Lady Grantham would likely fight in their corner if need be, she's sure of it.

 _Except that is a fight that will likely never come for us, not if we take another twenty years to **get** there._

And that is the greatest worry of them all, and it's the one at the root of her relentlessly-twisting hands: Mrs. Hughes had expected her butler to button himself up forever following his stilted admission, but it was as though he'd been set free. It was such a small change in him, one that she knew she was very privileged to see: a slight relaxing of his brow, a minute change in his stature, in the way he moved through the corridors of the Abbey itself, and a twinkle in his eye that he'd kept carefully guarded before. And now she's feeling pressured to _act_ upon it, and her realization of his new freedom only feels like a prison to her; she can see the potential but knows that - given past experience - it will take so long for the two of them to actually get anywhere that she thinks she'll go mad with the waiting.

So she stays by the door, afraid to approach him. She's declined his invitation to sit and talk, and she senses _his_ hesitation now, too. He's perplexed by her behavior; she sees it as a survival technique.

"You've work to do, Mr. Carson. I don't want to keep you from it." She hears the words in her mind, is not sure she's actually spoken them aloud, but he nods in acknowledgement and so she knows he must have heard her ... unless he read her mind, which would be perhaps the worst thing imaginable these days.

He backs down, albeit sadly. He sees the worry in her face, in the way her jaw is set and the way her eyes aren't quite as brilliantly blue as they are when she's full of joy. But he hopes that it's not to do entirely with him, and he offers up the only thing he has left at the moment.

"Would you join me for a sherry tonight? It should be an early one, with no guests - not even the Dowager or Mrs. Crawley this evening."

She pauses, and his heart skips a beat.

"Of course. But would you mind coming to my sitting room?" She needs that, needs the comfort of being in her own space.

"As you wish. I'll see you at dinner, Mrs. Hughes."

With a tilt of her head, she rounds the corner into the corridor. Her feet carry her briskly to her desk, where she plops unceremoniously into her chair. With her back to the door, she opens her desk drawer and withdraws a pen - her favorite, the one he'd gifted to her on her last birthday. A faint smile plays about her lips as she recalls the gasp that had escaped her lips upon finding the unmarked gift on her desk that morning, and the smile she'd been unable to keep off of her face when she'd lifted the lid and had seen, lying atop the pen inside the box, a simple note: _For your Birthday,_ written in his elegant script. She remembers turning when she'd sensed him in the doorway, and thinks of how she had whispered her thanks and earned a smile in return before he'd stepped into his own pantry.

Mrs. Patmore's knock makes her drop the pen on her desk; its clatter and the way the housekeeper jumps do not go unacknowledged.

"Better be careful with that," Mrs. Patmore says quietly. "I'm sure it means a lot to you."

Mrs. Hughes bites down on her lip and caps the pen, unable to believe how her hands remain still, calm, despite the raging thoughts inside her head.

"I just wanted to bring you some tea," the cook continued. "You looked as if you could use it when I saw you earlier." She pauses, her eyes roaming over her friend's features.

"Is there a reason you're examining me so intently, Mrs. Patmore?" Mrs. Hughes asks briskly.

"Maybe there is," the cook replies hesitantly.

"And how, pray tell, do you find me?" She doesn't mean to be testy, but she's so shaken from the encounter with Mr. Carson that she can barely get the words out smoothly.

Mrs. Patmore considers her for another moment. "Different, I think," she assesses. "More worried. Which strikes me as odd, given your now excellent health ... and how much more at ease _he_ seems lately," she answers, motioning her head toward the butler's pantry.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," the housekeeper answers. She knows that they _both_ know that's a lie, but she manages to get out of it unscathed.

"Well, when you get it sorted between you, I, for one, will be a great deal happier."

"Thank you for the tea," Mrs. Hughes says softly.

"You're welcome." And, with a swish of her skirt and apron, the cook leaves Mrs. Hughes to her thoughts.

She adds a bit of extra sugar to her tea and sits back in her chair, cradling the cup and saucer gently in her hand and watching as the steam wafts up. She sips, allowing the familiar heat of the drink to soothe her despite the fact that it's warmer in her office lately, what with the summer heat outside.

She spares a moment to ponder what tonight's glass of sherry might bring along with it. She'd give a great deal to feel his fingers brush hers, she knows that much. She's just not sure if, in her current state, it would be her undoing or her release.

She finishes her tea and turns to the package she's set aside - a new electric toaster, which she intends to try out as soon as possible. If she likes it, she thinks she'll suggest purchasing one for the kitchen. She ponders that for a moment, allows a smile to come to her lips as she imagines the cook's enthusiastic refusal of such an implement appearing in her realm.

She sets the cup and saucer aside and draws her own paperwork near, hoping it will provide a blessed respite from her thoughts.

* * *

 **This story is set up to be glimpses that blend scenes from the show with bits we never were allowed to see. Hopefully it will end up working seamlessly.**

 **A review would be lovely, if you're so inclined. Many thanks to you lovely readers for checking this out. xxx**


	3. Hard Decisions

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews - particularly from the guests, to whom I cannot reply in person. It's good to be back in Canon Chelsieland - I've missed period fic terribly.**

 **xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Love is all around you**_

 _ **Love is knockin' outside your door ...**_

* * *

 ** _Same day …_**

The smoke in the room is overwhelming.

 _Good heavens, Elsie Hughes, you're an intelligent woman! Can't you manage a simple toaster?_

She's waving the smoke away from her face and reaching to pull out the offending slice of bread, quite careful this second time _not_ to touch anything but the handle of little metal door, when the butler comes bursting into her sitting room, red pail in hand.

"Are you going to tip that over me?" she asks, swallowing a heartier laugh in favor of a smaller chuckle once she sees the look of horror on his face. She's waving her hands in the air to clear the smoke, and he barely manages to keep the pail in check.

And he _is_ horrified. He'd thought the entire _room_ was aflame given the amount of smoke that had been pouring out of it. They've not had a fire at the Abbey since he's been in residence, and he doesn't mean to start now. Particularly not in _her_ space, thank you very much.

" … making myself some toast," she's saying, her brogue thicker than usual as her guard is down, and he has to concentrate very hard to focus on the meaning of what she's saying. "You have to set the number on the dial and I had it up too high, but I've got the hang of it now. Would you like a piece?"

His mouth is agape, and he's trying to wrap his head around the situation before him: _I thought her parlour was on fire, with her perhaps_ _ **trapped**_ _in there, and she's offering me toast?_

And so he says the first thing that comes to mind: a joke, a teasing … usually _her_ defense mechanism, he knows.

"I was worried that Mr. Branson might take it into his head to burn the house down, but I didn't think that _you_ would."

And, God help him, she has a smart rebuttal … as usual.

"No? You should never take anything for granted, Mr. Carson."

She has that twinkle in her eyes, the smile flickering behind it and flitting across her face, and he has to tear himself away before he drops the pail right there on the floor so that he can whisk her into his arms and reassure himself that she is truly alright. He finds he's had rather enough of worrying for her health and safety these past weeks, and now a small toaster has almost made him lose the last filament of control that he's managed to maintain. He should have known when she'd shown it to him yesterday that the thing would be trouble ...

He turns with a huff to leave, only to have to shoo one of the hall boys away as well, and he wonders if she noticed the true feelings behind his behavior. Again.

 _A toaster! Making toast in her parlour!_

He decides he hates the bloody appliance, and he swears that he'll never touch one as long as he lives.

He's wrong, of course, only he won't realize it for years. But one day he'll shake his head, and look fondly at the blasted thing as he places it on a blue-paper-lined cabinet shelf. He'll remember this very day ... and he'll smile.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

He barely knocks before opening the door, and he grins to himself as she doesn't even bother to turn.

"My, my, you _are_ finished early," she marvels. "I'd wondered, when the family's plans changed and they _all_ ended up dining here. I must say this for Mrs. Levinson: she truly knows how to take control."

He hums in agreement, slight disapproval in his voice at the mention the woman.

"It's later than you might think, Mrs. Hughes. I do believe you may have lost track of the time," he says, setting the small sherry tray on the side table. "Still finishing up then?"

She glances at the clock. "Oh, my, I suppose you're right. And to answer your question, yes. I need about two more minutes, if you don't mind, Mr. Carson. Make yourself comfortable."

"Of course I don't mind. Better to have things tied up neatly for the morning."

He takes his seat and allows his eyes to wander. He looks at the items she has on her walls, on the shelves, wondering for the first time how many of them are _her_ items, things she'd brought with her, things that might give clues about what in her past is most important to her … or at least important enough that she's kept reminders of them all these years. He tries to remember which ones were here before, and he finds that he can no longer clearly remember _anything_ about the previous housekeeper's sitting room. He can remember her face quite easily, but her voice - the cadence and the pitch - are lost to him now that his mind is so securely latched onto the person currently holding the post.

Then his eyes fall on the woman herself - on her back, the straight set of her spine beneath the slightly-slumped shoulders – and he realizes she's had quite a long day, indeed. He notices a few stray curls at the nape of her neck, the humidity having coiled them, perhaps, after they'd slunk out at some point during the afternoon. She tilts her head then, slightly, and he knows she can feel his eyes on her; he looks away swiftly, training his gaze on the silhouettes on the wall once again.

"You brought those with you," he mutters aloud.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson?" The chair squeaks a bit as she turns to see what he's looking at.

He hears a click and looks to see her capping her pen, the one he'd given to her last year on her birthday. He'd worried at the time if it had been too extravagant a gift, but he'd given in to his desire to spend a bit more on it and is happy to see how much she clearly loves it. He likes to imagine now that perhaps she treasures it, and he's touched that something he'd put so much thought into choosing could be so loved and well-used by her.

"The silhouettes," he remarks. "On your wall. They're not from the previous housekeeper, are they?"

"No," she replies, the word rolling past her lips softly in her fatigue. "They're my auntie and uncle, actually. My mum's sister."

She rises from her seat and stretches her back a bit, and he can hear the click of her bones. It comforts him, reminding him that he's not the only one getting on.

"You resemble," he remarks.

"That's quite a compliment, you know; she was a lovely woman. We were rather close when I was growing up and she visited often. My uncle ran the local grocery, and they helped us through some lean years on the farm."

She looks as though she meant to say more, but he notices that she stops, and while he wonders what she might have told him afterward, he's aware that she's just given him a precious window into her life before Downton.

"Then you were lucky to have them, indeed," he says meaningfully, standing to pour the sherry as she takes her seat opposite him.

"We truly were," she says. "Now, tell me about this new footman."

He heaves a sigh and shakes his head.

"Oh, surely it wasn't as bad as all that," she chides.

"No," he admits. "He's clearly well-trained. It's just that he's a bit too _familiar_ for my liking."

"Yes. _Jimmy._ I heard," she says. She accepts the glass gratefully, careful not to brush his fingers, despite her earlier desire to do so. It's been a rather long day, indeed, and she's not sure she can manage anything not strictly proper.

"Quite right. We shall see how it works out."

They make a bit of small talk, but she's quite distracted. She knows he can tell, but she can't manage to bring her thoughts very firmly back to the present. But she notices that her unease from earlier in the day has, indeed, lessened. She wonders not for the first time if these almost-nightly glasses of sherry and wine have become her salvation.

"I know I've asked this earlier, Mrs. Hughes, but are you sure everything is alright?"

She runs her tongue over her lip slightly, then draws the lip under her teeth, and he knows she's deciding if she should confide in him. Something is clearly weighing heavily upon her mind, more so than usual, and he stands and reaches for the crystal decanter, holding it up silently, an eyebrow raised; she nods, and he refills her glass and then his own before taking his seat again.

He watches her face through her internal struggle, and it seems to have been an age since he spoke. He sees sadness there and is discomfited by it, because earlier on in the day she'd seemed troubled, but not precisely _melancholy._

She sighs softly. "It was just a very long day, Mr. Carson," she says tiredly.

He wonders if he'd have been satisfied with that answer before she'd been ill, before he'd been worried that he'd lose her to a dreaded, life-threatening illness. He thinks he might have been, and he's rather upset with himself for realizing that only now. There's a time for propriety and personal distance, he knows, but when one is truly concerned for a friend, perhaps those things become just a little less important.

 _And she's something more than a friend,_ he reminds himself. _We've at least gotten that bit out._

He's still not quite sure how _she_ feels about it all, though; they've not discussed it between them, it just sort of _exists,_ like some nebulous presence that floats around with them. He's certain she feels _something,_ but has not a clue as to how much, or how deeply, or for how long it's been there. Everything between them is still the same _professionally,_ generally speaking. But then, sometimes, everything is so _different,_ too. In moments like they'd had today, when smoke coming from her sitting room had him reeling with real fear - _those_ are the times that he's reminded of what he truly wants.

And what he wants _now_ is to push her a bit, to be a little more like _her_ when something is bothering _him._ So he finds a way, as he stares into the warm amber liquid in his glass, forming a question that she's got no way out of unless she tells an outright lie; he wouldn't put it completely past her, but it's not really her style.

"Where did you head off to today? You were gone for quite a while."

She turns sharply, regretting it instantly and wincing at the wrench her neck gives from the movement. She's been fighting a cold on top of everything else, and she knows better than to twist so harshly when she's already a bit achy.

"Are you keeping tabs on me, Mr. Carson?"

He looks up from his drink and meets her eyes, fearful for a split second that she's truly cross with him, but he sees the familiar teasing look about her. _Still …_ _Better to be cautious._

"I wouldn't put it like that, Mrs. Hughes," he rumbles, and he notices that she turns her gaze to some spot on the wall past his shoulder. "But wherever it was, it seems to have shaken you a bit."

He sees it between her next two breaths; she's not moved, nor spoken, but he knows that she's shutting herself away for the evening. He recognizes it happening immediately because, after all, he's the master of doing just that.

"I'm sorry," he says, saving her from having to come up with something to say. "I didn't mean to pry."

She turns her eyes back to him then, sees the regret in his own coupled with his fear that he's overstepped a boundary. Her heart breaks a little then, because she realizes that in all these past weeks since they've acknowledged what _he_ feels for _her,_ they've not at all addressed precisely how _she_ might be returning those feelings. And whatever she feels, and whatever she sees, there is no way on earth that she has the stamina to have that conversation now.

But she can't bear the sadness in his eyes, either, and so she attempts to put him at ease in some small way.

"I don't believe _that_ for a moment, Mr. Carson, but I know that you ask because you care, and I appreciate that."

He nods slowly, and she adds, "I called at Mrs. Crawley's house, if you really want to know. At her request."

She raises her eyebrows at him, and her eyes beg him to not ask further questions. And there's no need, really, for she's told him _where_ she was, and he can't believe he didn't think of it sooner.

 _There's only one reason she'd have passed part of this afternoon with Mrs. Crawley,_ he tells himself.

 _Ethel._

And he realizes he doesn't want to know anymore … not yet, anyhow. Because this thing between himself and Mrs. Hughes is so precious, so precariously balanced at the moment, and she is so drained, that the last thing he wants is to be the reason they're in any sort of disagreement.

She's twisting the glass in her fingertips, one fingernail running between the cut design of the crystal, and the rest of her words take him by surprise.

"Mr. Carson?" she asks quietly. "Have you ever … done something … something that you thought was so right, and then ... well, after the doing of it, suddenly been convinced that you were so horribly _wrong_ after all?"

He sits straighter, now a bit confused as to where she's coming from.

"No, I don't think that I have."

She nods, still staring at the glass but not actually seeing it at all.

He feels the need to elaborate, that somehow his answer is inadequate.

"I think," he tries again, concentrating very hard on getting the words right as he stares at her, his dearest friend, who now seems to be crumbling under whatever weight she's carrying, "I think that if one makes a hard decision, but that decision is based upon one's truest convictions, that it must have been the right choice in the end."

She hums, clearly thinking on his words. He watches her mulling this over, wishing he had more to offer than just sitting quietly beside her.

When it's clear that she isn't going to be asking any more questions or divulging any more details, he stands and places his glass and hers - both empty now - on the silver tray.

She lays her hand on the table and makes to stand as well, and she sees the slight motion of his hand, as if he's reaching out to steady her. But he drops it back to his side almost forcefully, as if afraid to reach out with his hand the way he's already done with his words - afraid to be too familiar, afraid to dive too deeply just yet ... afraid to scare her away.

"I think I should turn in," she admits. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

"Oh, I've done nothing … not really," he says, brushing her off.

She's biting the lip again, driving him to distraction, and he knows now that he'll be lucky if he sleeps as well tonight as he imagines _she_ will.

"It's the very opposite of nothing," she whispers, her sad blue eyes locked on his concerned hazel-colored ones, seemingly darker in the faint light of the parlour. "And I'm grateful for it."

He has no words of reply. He tilts his head in acknowledgement and then lifts the tray and makes his way to her door, opening it for her and watching as she closes it behind them. He doesn't take his eyes off of her as she slowly locks the door with the well-worn key.

She feels him behind her, his presence - solid, and secure, and _sure_ \- and she can feel the care pouring off of him in waves. She feels protected, and _safe,_ and it calms her.

He backs away as she draws the key from the lock, and he walks her to the bottom of the servants' stairway.

"Sleep well, Mrs. Hughes," he murmurs, vaguely aware of the low bustle in the kitchen as the maids are cleaning the last of the cookware. "I'll tell Mrs. Patmore you've gone up."

She smiles at him, and his heart is filled anew.

"Good night, Mr. Carson. And I _do_ thank you. For everything."

She feels his eyes still on her as she climbs the stairs, and knows that she'll sleep infinitely better tonight than she would have had she not had his company.

 _And that,_ she tells herself, _is worth more than most people would ever realize._

But Elsie Hughes isn't most people. _She_ knows the value present in that big bear of a butler, and she knows she'd be a damned fool to let him pass her by. She's not sure he's ready yet to understand even a fraction of the feelings she has for him, but - _little by little,_ she tells herself - she'll make sure he gets there in the end.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. If you could take a moment to leave a wee review, I'd appreciate it very much.**

 ****This scene is meant to take place the day that Ethel sends little Charlie away to live with the Bryants. I did add a bit in that Carson had seen the toaster the day previous, as in canon the "toaster scenes" are clearly on different days. I hope I've not confused anyone. x**


	4. With You in the Dark

**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews you've left so far. It keeps me going knowing that people are actually reading and enjoying the story.**

 **Not a terribly fun time of it here, nor for the next chapter, but if you've been reading along then you're likely expecting it anyhow. About a month has passed in the timeline of the story. My thanks to friends who helped me iron out the possibilities for how the beginning of this could have gone.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

" _ **When you can't find a bright side, I will sit with you in the dark."**_

* * *

 _Early September, 1920_

It's the middle of the night, but Mrs. Hughes can't sleep. She's been tossing and turning, the excitement from the late night still fresh in her mind. She finally gives up, attempting to sit up for a bit and read instead. But even that doesn't hold her focus.

 _A wee bairn …_

She smiles to herself as she sits awake in her bed, and she drops the book to her lap as a happy sigh escapes her lips. For all the effort she'd put into warning them away from one another, she readily admits now that the road to happiness has been hard-fought for the Bransons, and she only needs to see the way Mr. Branson's face lights up when he talks about his wife to know it was a fight worth having.

Regardless, it was such a _long_ night, and she craves a bit of sleep. The sound of Lady Sybil's cries had echoed through the corridors and the gallery, frightening them all, until - _finally_ \- the sound of a strong, newborn baby's cry had overtaken them.

The family and staff have been settled into bed for a couple of hours now and yet here she sits, wide awake and becoming increasingly agitated by the knowledge that the sunrise is coming sooner than she'd like. She sighs, closing the book and resting it on the nightstand.

She rises from the bed and dons her dressing gown, then slips out her door silently and down the stairs, thinking some warm milk is just the thing she needs to calm herself enough to be able to sleep. She's just turning the corner on the landing of the servants' staircase when she's almost run down; much later, she'll curse herself for having been daydreaming so much that she didn't hear the approaching footsteps at all.

"Billy!" She reaches an arm out to grasp the railing, gasping. "Whatever is the matter?"

The hall boy, about twelve years old with short-trimmed, dark brown hair, stops on the step where he's landed above her and turns to face her, wild-eyed with urgency.

"I've been sent to fetch Mr. Carson," he gasps, making to run again. "Doctor Clarkson told me to hurry."

A feeling of complete and utter fear runs through her, from her scalp to the soles of her feet, a coldness like she has never felt before.

"Oh, my God," she whispers, her fingers over her lips. "Go, then!"

She's right behind him, of course.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The sound of rapid knocking comes to him through his dream, waking him instantly but confusing him for a moment.

"Mr. Carson."

The hushed urgency of the boy's voice is what truly brings him to the here and how, and he practically leaps from the bed, fearful that one of the staff has taken ill in the night, and already calculating how they'll manage ...

"Mr. Carson!"

He pulls the door open to find Billy, clearly terrified, and he realizes it must be something worse ... that it's something so much worse than he imagined.

"Billy? What's going on?"

"Mr. Carson, sir, you need to come quickly. It's Lady Sybil. She's … The doctor is waiting for you."

He looks past the lad's shoulder to see Mrs. Hughes standing behind him, her face full of terror and her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She looks at him silently and her lips part; she gives a minute shake of her head, an acknowledgement that she _has_ heard him but that she cannot accurately answer the silent question hidden within his spoken one. He whips his dressing gown off the hook and stuffs his arms inside the sleeves as he rushes through the door, with Billy leading the way in front of the butler, and with the housekeeper trailing behind.

They descend rapidly until Billy stops before the door closest to the family's bedrooms. He reaches to open it, and in those same brief seconds Mr. Carson reaches out blindly behind him, brushing Mrs. Hughes's arm gently with his fingers and reassuring himself of her steady presence; he hears her inhale sharply at his touch, but he can't bear to turn and face her just yet.

They proceed quickly toward the Bransons' room, but Doctor Clarkson and Sir Philip meet them outside the door. Mr. Carson can hear Lady Grantham and Mr. Branson inside, weeping, and it just about breaks his heart. Mrs. Hughes can hear them, too, but she has somehow managed, on the brief trip down the stairs, to turn her immediate shock and sadness into something akin to _rage._ She and Mr. Carson were both made aware, of course, of the battle that had occurred between the two doctors earlier on in the evening, but Mrs. Hughes knows no one realizes that _she,_ personally, is quite familiar with eclampsia; she'd seen it as a young girl in Argyll, where it had claimed the life of a neighbor. When Miss O'Brien had uttered the word hours ago, the housekeeper's blood had run cold. And so it is that she manages, as they come face-to-face with the doctors, to turn her rage into a steely blue glare directed at Sir Philip.

Mr. Carson is thankfully unaware of this, standing just a bit in front of her, but Doctor Clarkson sees it. He feels simultaneously vindicated and intimidated, knowing that the woman before him has assessed in an instant what will take him an ungodly amount of energy to explain to the butler.

But he manages, noting that Sir Philip is standing by silently and, perhaps (Doctor Clarkson thinks it's likely) cringing inwardly under the stare of the formidable housekeeper.

As the words - short, succinct, clinical - are passing over the Doctor's lips, Mr. Carson staggers a bit. But after a few seconds he stands straighter, and his lips form a thin, white line as he manages to compose himself a bit more.

"We'll let the staff know immediately," Mrs. Hughes says. "Thank you, Doctor Clarkson."

Her hand ghosts over Mr. Carson's elbow, bidding him to turn, and he nods absentmindedly and follows her back toward the servants' stairway, Billy having disappeared once his job was done. It doesn't even register with Mr. Carson that it is _she_ who holds the door for _him,_ and he passes through and waits for her. They move back up the stairs side by side, silent until they reach the attics once again.

"We'll have Anna and Mr. Barrow round up the others," she says then. "They can have everyone gather downstairs; that way, we only need to do this once."

He tilts his head to look at her, _really_ look, and he sees the firm control she has over the situation - over _him._ He agrees silently, and she pulls out her key to unlock the door that separates the women's side of the corridor from the men's.

It's only when he passes through this doorway that her words strike him.

 _ **We.** __**We'll**_ _have Anna and Mr. Barrow round up the others._ _ **We**_ _only need to do this once._

He turns to look at her, and she reaches out and squeezes the side of his hand; a brief, seconds-long gesture, but it's all he needs.

"I'll be right by your side," she murmurs, reassuring him, not a trace of a quiver in her voice.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

And she is. He feels her presence immediately to his right as they all stand together, can see her out of the corner of his eye.

He can't focus on any of their faces, not through the telling of it. He keeps it simple: facts only, repeating almost verbatim what the doctor had told them not fifteen minutes before. He hears Mrs. Hughes sniffle once and knows she's beginning to lose control over her emotions, but it doesn't matter anymore. In fact, he wonders if it's _better_ that the staff see their heads of household grieving right beside them. It's a thought he'd never have entertained before having known _her,_ he is sure of that. He manages to hold his own tears in, though … for the moment.

Mrs. Hughes feels his sadness as acutely as her own. It's emanating from his body and floating right through the threads of the nightclothes that she wears and passing directly into the fibres of her very _being._ She tries to envision pulling the sadness away from him with her mind, as if such a thing were possible, because she's not sure if she can bear to see him so devastated in front of the staff. Overwhelmed, though not allowing herself to cry _quite_ yet, she clenches her hands tightly; he's managing to hold himself together for the moment, and that's all she can ask for.

The look on everyone's faces is nothing short of horrified, and she can do little to soften the blow of the butler's words. They're completely shell-shocked, although Mr. Barrow and Anna seem the worst off, and no surprise; when they'd been asked to gather the staff, she's sure they managed to put two and two together first, therefore having had a bit more time to internalize it all. And, that aside, they're the two who perhaps knew Lady Sybil the best, save for the heads of staff themselves.

It is Daisy who speaks first. "Is there anything we should do, Mr. Carson?"

"Carry on, Daisy," he manages gruffly. "As we all must."

He turns from them, never meeting any of their eyes with his own, and seeks refuge in his pantry, leaving Mrs. Hughes to deal with the aftermath.

She understands, though; she always does. The group splits apart a bit, Mr. Barrow being the next out the doorway and into the corridor as Mrs. Hughes takes Daisy in her arms and comforts her, the young woman's sobs escaping at last. She rubs her back and murmurs whatever comfort she can find to give, which isn't much. And then she feels a touch to her arm, and she turns to see Mrs. Patmore beside her.

"Go," the cook whispers tearfully, and Mrs. Hughes nods her thanks, handing Daisy off to Mrs. Patmore's loving embrace.

Mrs. Hughes makes her way toward his pantry, and she can tell she's startled Anna and Mr. Barrow as she passes behind them.

"Oh, don't mind me," she says to them, her brogue thick with emotion. "The sweetest spirit under this roof is gone, and I'm weepin' myself."

Anna watches the older woman go, hoping that Mrs. Hughes will not only manage to comfort Mr. Carson, but that she'll manage to be comforted _by_ him as well.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Mrs. Hughes finds the pantry door open, with Mr. Carson standing desolately in the middle of the room, his gaze once again seemingly unfocused on anything. She wipes at her eyes as she passes through the door and takes a deep breath.

"Are you alright, Mr. Carson?" She could kick herself for the foolish question, for asking something she can clearly divine the answer to on her own. But he doesn't seem to notice, and he would never judge her for it anyhow ... not now.

"I've known her all her life, you see," he manages. "I've known her since she was _born."_

He's so despondent, so very _lost_ in that moment, and her heart shatters. And so she moves without thinking, really, understanding only that he needs some kind of comfort and that she must offer whatever she can; she reaches out and grasps his forearm with her hand and squeezes, tightly. And she can't pretend that it doesn't help her as well, that she isn't also craving some physical contact to comfort her in her own sorrow.

He watches as her hand comes to rest on his arm, and he watches as he brings his own up to cover it; it's as though the movement is something completely outside of himself that he can neither speed up nor stop. He isn't sure of it at all, if they should chance offering even this small comfort in front of the open door. But it's not improper, not really … not at a time like this.

It's like an electric shock to him, though, her touch, and it jolts him back to the here and now. He looks at her hesitantly, but the tears he sees in her eyes wash away any reservations he has. He latches onto her like a drowning man clutching a life raft, and they stand like that for a moment, silently, until neither is sure where one hand ends and the other begins.

He loosens his hold after a bit, terrified that he'd frighten her with his overwhelming despair. But she simply tightens her own grip on him and leans slightly into his side, and the feel of her so close, of her warmth filtering into him and helping to soothe him, is worth any risk of being caught out by an open door. He feels the tears fill his eyes again, and a brief glance tells him she's already gone.

And so they stand there, grieving together, separated away from the others in their own private world … if only for a moment.

* * *

 **I'd love a review if you have the time. We'll pick up with this same thread in the next chapter. (hugs)**


	5. Coming Together

**A/N: Thank you ALL for the lovely reviews! I do hope you enjoy this update. In my head canon, Carson is a very private man, but I don't think he's without** _ **feeling.**_ **This update starts with what is, in my opinion, one of the best scenes of the entire production of Downton Abbey ... along with, as is the point of this story, a little addition.**

 **Thank you all for your amazing support! xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Love can build**_

 _ **A house that stands forever**_

 _ **Stronger than a wall of steel or stone**_

 _ **We will be a shelter**_

 _ **For each other**_

 _ **In the storm**_

 _ **And when we come together**_

 _ **We'll be home***_

* * *

 _ **Mid September - three days later**_

The butler hears the car before he sees it, the crunch of sand and gravel unmistakable to his well-trained senses. The driver pulls up before the door, and the Dowager is assisted out of the vehicle. Mr. Carson's posture droops just a bit when he sees her, but not enough that most would be able to tell. _He_ certainly isn't aware of it, at any rate. But the weight of the woman's sadness is palpable from the moment he lays eyes on her, and he is deeply affected by it.

She staggers to the doorway, unassisted except by her cane, ever the picture of posture and grace despite the devastating loss of her youngest grandchild. She proceeds through the doorway and stops before him, and what she sees in his eyes is not the pity that she'd witnessed from the chauffeur and footmen, but a true understanding of what she's feeling.

"Oh, Carson." Her voice catches in her throat as she tries to swallow down a bit of the emotion. She needs to speak, to acknowledge him, this man who quite possibly understands _her_ better than anyone else in her son's household.

"Good afternoon, Milady." His voice is steady, strong, and sure - very like the man himself - and she is grateful for it, for his steadfast presence, the one that reassures her that even in this most awful of times, there is never an excuse to let style and formality fall by the wayside.

She pats his hand with her gloved one. "We've seen some troubles, you and I." She pauses again, and she's about at the end of her control. "Nothing worse than this."

"Nothing _could_ be worse than this, Milady."

He stands up straighter, finally realizing that he'd slouched a bit underneath the weight of her sorrow. He notices as she struggles to cross the great hall and he turns as though to aid her, but in the end he maintains his position. This is a trek she must make on her own, unassisted; she's the Dowager Countess of Grantham, after all, and he is quite sure that this house has never seen her equal - nor will it ever see it again. Her steps are uneven, unsteady, but with the support of her cane, she makes it at last.

Just as the Dowager enters the sitting room to join the rest of the family, Mr. Carson senses that he's being watched. He moves to close the great doors of the Abbey and turns once again, gazing across the hall to the where the door to the servants' stairway stands open, and he watches as the housekeeper moves, her face coming a bit more into the light.

She sees him raise his chin toward her and she reads his silent signal:

 _I'm alright._

She blinks slowly as she tilts her head slightly ... the silent reply that she understands, and the acknowledgement that she's watching out for him.

He sees her turn, hears the jingle of her keys as she disappears behind the closing door, and - for the first time since this whole ordeal began - he wonders where she's getting all of _her_ strength, when she'd seemed so bereft of it these past many months.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

 _ **Ten days later**_

It's late, and Mr. Carson is making his evening rounds. The family seems somewhat back to a routine, and although their overwhelming sadness still pervades, they are getting on with life little by little. He's happy to see Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley smiling again, and although he still doesn't entirely approve of Mr. Branson's presence in the family wing, his heart _has_ softened quite a bit toward the man who had his lovely wife snatched away from him so cruelly. The butler only needs to remember back to Mrs. Hughes's cancer scare to realize that, perhaps, he can relate to just a little of what it must be like to be Tom Branson these days. The thought gives him pause, and it certainly gives him some sympathy for the younger man as well.

Mr. Carson is walking along an upstairs corridor when he hears the oddly familiar sound. It starts softly - a murmur, barely a whisper of noise - and he's instantly transported almost thirty years back, to when he used to hear the same quiet fussing coming from the previous inhabitant of the nursery.

He sees the door ajar, and a glance inside reveals that Nanny is not currently present. Assuming she must be preparing herself for bed, he pushes the door open. He approaches the cradle and, sure enough, sees the babe (his mind whispers _"wee bairn"_ in a distinct brogue) moving about, her tiny fists clenched by her temples, with tears in her scrunched-up eyes.

"Come now, Miss Sybbie, there's no need for that," he murmurs. He reaches into the cradle and lifts her out effortlessly.

"It's been rather a long time since I've done this," he whispers to the babe, "so you'll have to forgive me if you're uncomfortable."

She stops crying and he sees her big, blue eyes staring at him, and he wonders just what she makes of his features.** Tucking her into the crook of his arm, he begins to bounce her very gently, pacing around the room a bit before taking her out into the quiet corridor.

"The whole family are asleep," he counsels, "so none of that fussing, if you please. How about we just walk a bit and see if we can't get _you_ to sleep too, alright?"

He paces the carpet with her for a bit, watching her watch him. She begins to fuss again, and he looks up and spots an armchair tucked into the corner, thankful that it's a larger one that will comfortably support his frame.

"There, there," he says to Sybbie, who is now laid in his lap, her head by his knees as his hands support her little body. "What is all this fussing about, young lady? You've been up at all hours this week, or so I've heard from Anna. What's the meaning of that, hm?"

She moves her fists about, one of them opening after a moment, and her fingers find purchase on the cuff of his livery. She squeezes tightly, and her surprisingly-sharp fingernail grazes his wrist.

"I see," he says to her, raising an eyebrow. "Attacking me, are you? And here I thought we were going to be friends."

He reaches his free hand up a bit and brushes his fingers over the top of her head, feeling the softness of the hair, and he's once again transported back to the days when it was Lady Sybil in his hands. He remembers how, on nights like this when he'd hear fussing from the nursery as he completed his rounds, he'd stop in and soothe her, or perhaps read a story to the older girls if they were awake. He never _asked_ them or the Nanny not to mention it, but he's certain that none of them ever did.

He begins humming lowly, and he lifts Sybbie up and lays her on his chest, leaning back a bit in the chair to make it easier. He pats her back gently with his massive hand - the span of his fingers alone covers her from side to side - and begins rocking ever-so-smoothly. As he reaches the end of his song, he feels her body grow heavier, and he knows she's fallen asleep. He rises from the chair and carries her back to the nursery, where he finds Nanny just returning as well.

"Mr. Carson?" She gives him an unpleasant look, as if she disapproves of him having the babe on his shoulder.

"I heard her fussing," he explains quietly. "I assumed you were busy and thought I might be able to settle her."

"Well, it looks as though you succeeded." She reaches her arms out for Sybbie, but Mr. Carson ignores her; he doesn't like this woman's manner, to tell the truth. He finds her standoffish, and he knows that she's somewhat rude to the other staff. Instead, he places Sybbie in the cradle himself, hearing Nanny huff and turn away toward her own bed.

He leans over and places the gentlest of kisses to Sybbie's warm, soft brow.

"You remind me so very much of your mother, little one," he whispers.

It's only when he's almost to the stairs that he feels a tear roll down his cheek.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Mrs. Hughes is tidying her desk when she glances at the clock, surprised at the lateness of the hour.

 _You're moving slowly tonight, Mr. Carson,_ she thinks, and she wonders what's taking him so long to make it through his evening rounds. It's much too late for a nightcap, but she doesn't mind. It's been a very long day and she's rather exhausted, truth be told. She'd hoped to say goodnight before heading up, but it doesn't look like that will be the case.

She opens her desk drawer to replace her ledger, but she feels the drawer catch on something just as she hears the crinkle of paper. Puzzled, she bends down to look inside, but it's too dark to make much of anything out. She pushes the drawer back in a bit and reaches with her fingers to free whatever is lodged within. Her fingertips do brush on a piece of paper, but she can't quite grasp it. She sighs loudly, biting down on her lip in concentration as she moves some of the drawer's contents around a bit, reminding herself to clean it all out when she has a free moment. She manages to free up just enough space to catch the offending paper between her index and middle fingers and pull it out.

One glance tells her precisely what it is. She stands quickly, feeling as though the wind has been knocked out of her sails, and she thinks she needs to get up to her room as soon as possible to rid herself of the constricting corset that's inhibiting her flow of oxygen ... only she realizes it's not just the corset that has her breathless. She's been feeling this coming for weeks now, the buildup of pain, of anguish, of _secrets …_ all the things she's managed to stuff back down into her chest until she would be free to pull them out and examine them carefully, bit by bit. They've been suffocating her, and she knows it.

And tonight, she's simply too tired to keep them in anymore. With trembling fingers, she opens the paper that pushed her over the edge, knowing that just by looking at it, she's about to bring everything directly to the surface.

 _Dear Mrs. Hughes,_ she reads, and then the rest of the words are obscured by her tears. She bows her head and allows them to fall - great, big tears, running down her cheeks and splashing onto the precious letter held in her hands. She reaches out for the edge of the fireplace mantle to steady herself.

She never even hears Mr. Carson's footsteps as he comes down to bid her goodnight.

He turns the corner of her doorway and is taken aback by the sight before him: Mrs. Hughes, standing by the fireplace, grasping the edge of the mantle shelf and standing there, silently sobbing.

He says nothing, but he's completely unable to _do_ nothing. His long stride has him behind her in mere seconds. He lays one hand on her shoulder and reaches the other out to take something out of her hand: a crumpled, scalloped-edged sheet of beige letter paper that he does not recognize. He pries it open with his finger to see what it could possibly contain that would have upset her so.

 _Dear Mrs. Hughes,_ he reads, and his eyes drop to the signature.

 _Sybil Branson._ Of course.

He refolds the paper with his long fingers and places it safely on the mantle. He then takes her shoulders in his hands and turns her to face him, drawing her securely into his embrace. He's astounded by how _small_ she feels, and his heart doubles over as he realizes that this woman, the one who has always appeared so in command of everything around her, is actually, in this very moment, quite fragile indeed ... and accepting comfort from _him_ when she'd most certainly accept it from no one else.

Mrs. Hughes, rendered completely unable to speak before the man had even entered the room, can do nothing but allow this embrace. She feels his caring but also a bit of his unease at having her so closely held to his body.

But most of all, perhaps, she feels his unwavering, supportive strength. It is pouring into her, and she can feel it pulling her back from the brink.

And as she cries into the lapel of his coat, with her arms wrapped tightly around her abdomen, she thinks that _this_ is how they truly are: they support one another in times of need. It's why they're so very good at running the household together, and it makes her wonder if this caring they have for one another in their professional capacity, in their friendship, would translate just as easily to a more personal relationship as well.

His hand moves slightly to caress her back, and she manages to regain her composure. She leans away from him and wipes at her face, and he offers her his handkerchief.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she whispers to his chest, her voice rough with emotion and, he assumes, a bit of discomfort. She hesitates before taking the handkerchief from him, and he's pleased when she accepts it.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hughes?"

She looks up at him, the corners of her red-rimmed eyes crinkling as she smiles sadly. "I will be," she allows. "I've no choice, have I?"

His arms fall away, and she feels the loss keenly. She draws in a deep, cleansing breath, and makes to return the handkerchief.

"Keep it," he murmurs, his eyes examining her face for any remaining distress.

"I'm fine now, really, Mr. Carson. I just needed a bit of a cry."

He nods, and they move together to the doorway and up to the attics. He leaves her once more at the dividing door - he's really beginning to hate that door, he thinks - and offers her a few final words.

"You don't have to do it all alone, you know. Not anymore."

She licks her lips, not daring herself to turn and face him.

"Perhaps not," she says softly, and she unlocks the door to let herself through, bidding him a soft "goodnight" as she does so.

* * *

 ***Each chapter of this fic opens with a lyric or quote. The lyric here is from a piece entitled "We Will Be a Shelter for Each Other" that I've sung at church (it was written following Hurricane Ivan, which struck Pensacola, Florida in 2004). It can be found on YouTube, but only with choirs singing it. It and the other titles and quotes I'm sourcing will all be listed at the very end of this fic upon its completion.**

 ****I am aware that, as a two-week-old infant, Baby Sybbie was likely not able to focus much on Mr. Carson's features ... but I doubt that _he_ would know that.**

 _ **A little review would be lovely if you have the chance – thank you!**_


	6. The Touch of a Hand

**A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews. A bit more headway here, finishing up the bit with Ethel working at Crawley House.**

* * *

 _ **Maybe just the touch of a hand**_

 _ **I fall in love with you every single day …**_

 _ **We found love right where we are.**_

* * *

 ** _September, 1920_**

Daisy and Ivy are busy, thank goodness. Mrs. Patmore isn't quite sure what she'd have said if they'd overheard and asked her about the discussion that had just taken place in the butler's pantry. Sure, everyone is used to the occasional bickering now and again, which generally signifies an instance where Mr. Carson has been insisting upon something that only makes sense in his own mind and where the housekeeper has to bring him back up to speed with reality.

But it's never been like this.

Mrs. Patmore is _very_ happy she made it out of his pantry when she did earlier that day, and she desperately regrets having lingered outside of his door just now. Her intention had simply been to check on the details for the family's breakfast tomorrow, to see if Mr. Branson would be joining them. But she'd heard Mrs. Hughes's voice in the pantry and had stopped just short of rounding the corner into the room.

 _Sigh._ She can't get Mr. Carson's words out of her mind, and she hopes Mrs. Hughes wasn't too hurt by them.

' _You disappoint me … a woman of no standards.'_

As she kneads the dough for tomorrow's bread, she wonders ...

 _Things between those two have been different lately, goodness knows._

Something happened in the days after Lady Sybil's funeral; she's worked out that much. Mrs. Patmore isn't sure _what,_ precisely, it was, but Mr. Carson seems to be paying a bit more attention to Mrs. Hughes lately. It's not in any improper way, but as though he's watching her more intently, _warily,_ as if he expects her to burst into flame at any moment.

And that's the crux of her discomfort, Mrs. Patmore realizes: she'd thought perhaps the two of them were becoming a bit closer, _finally_ … and now this.

 _Still, he's always been somewhat of a curmudgeon ..._

The more she ponders the situation, the more she wonders if perhaps a word to Mrs. Hughes about it might just be in order.

 _One thing's certain,_ Mrs. Patmore thinks. _Ethel came here wanting to stir the world up a bit, and she's certainly done that!_

Her musings, however, are interrupted by the man himself walking into the kitchen. She can't read him as well as Mrs. Hughes can; she's unable to tell if he's upset or not, and reminding herself of that only puts her on edge. Half of her wants to scold him for what she's overheard, and the rest of her would rather pretend he wasn't standing there at all.

"A word, Mrs. Patmore? When you have a moment. Please."

She looks up, a bit startled.

"Ivy," she calls, her eyes still on the butler. "Take over here, would you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore." Ivy looks on with some interest, but a quip from Daisy calls her attention back to the dough.

The cook follows Mr. Carson out into the corridor.

"Yes? What is it, Mr. Carson?"

He sees it in her face, in the set of her jaw and the look of her eyes: reserve, yes, and a hint of defiance that reminds him of someone else he knows.

"I just wanted to apologize, Mrs. Patmore," he says quietly, his face softening a bit. "Mrs. Hughes was correct; I had no right to speak to you in that manner. I've not changed my opinion on the subject but, as cook, you are not specifically under my supervision."

"Yes, well …" She utters the next words before she can even think to stop them from spilling forth. "I suppose you'll be apologizing to _her,_ too?"

He bristles, pulling away from her as though he'd thought she'd strike him. "I beg your pardon?"

But she stands her ground. The fact that he doesn't even seem to register what she could be referring to positively astounds her.

"'A woman with no standards?' Surely even _you_ can see how positively harsh and untrue _that_ was."

He purses his lips and inhales deeply. "That was a private conversation," he says lowly.

"Yes, well, then perhaps you should have had it behind closed doors, Mr. Carson. I happened to be walking by, but anyone could have heard you."

"I simply cannot approve of any woman of respectable background being in the presence of - being _served by_ \- a woman of … a woman like that," he whispers angrily.

"Well," she replies testily, "then perhaps you might consider that we were only trying to _help_ Ethel. That way, she might be able to move away, get a respectable job as a cook, and stop offending people's sensibilities!"

She turns on her heel and stalks away, leaving a stunned butler in her wake.

Footsteps coming down the stairway alert him to the imminent presence of Mrs. Hughes; he turns and walks into his pantry before she can spy him, closing the door firmly behind himself.

He needs time to think, and he'll get none of that done if _she's_ around.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Mr. Bates's return has certainly put a bit of happiness back in things, and Mrs. Hughes is grateful. She's feeling a bit more like herself, and her guilt about the part she played in his trial and conviction is waning slightly now that she sees the man back before them, looking - for the most part - well. He's got a bit of a haunted look about him now, she thinks, but then he's always had a bit of something that none of the other men have … some aura of having lived through horrible things and lived to tell about it. Come to think of it, Mr. Barrow has a bit of that too, and the irony of _those_ two having something in common makes her smile.

She's noticed Mr. Carson seems a bit brighter now that the valet is back, too. She'd been concerned about so much change happening so soon: they'd lost Lady Sybil, Mr. Branson was left finding his way in the family and with the staff, too, and lately it seems as though the _men_ of downstairs are always bickering and jockeying for position. Mr. Carson was about at his wits' end with it all, but Mr. Bates's presence seems to have evened the score a bit. The valet is much like Mr. Carson in many ways, and it's nice to have some balance back on that side of things.

And this business with Ethel seems to finally be sorted, thank God. It hadn't really pained her to side with the Dowager and Lady Edith regarding that whole thing - she truly _does_ feel that Ethel's chances are much better far away from Downton - but it seems to have put Mrs. Crawley off a bit. No matter, really, as Mrs. Hughes rarely ever has the opportunity to interact with the woman, but it does sadden her a bit. She _likes_ Mrs. Crawley, and she enjoyed conversing with her and having a common goal. She likes to think that the woman has a fair amount of respect for her, too. Certainly they share similar values, at the very least. It had been rather nice working with her on the 'project' that Ethel had become … a chance to make a difference in the life of someone _outside_ of Downton. Mrs. Hughes still feels responsible for Ethel's circumstances, and she's been grateful for the opportunity to help change them around, if only a little bit. She feels that she'll rather miss Mrs. Crawley. In a way, she feels as though she's losing touch with all of the ones she cares about the most …

Then the realization of what she's doing hits her, and she has to laugh as she sits back in her desk chair.

For all the time she spends chiding Mr. Carson on his loyalty to the family, on his pride at being entrusted by Lord Grantham with their care, she's really no better. It's just that the people they're most loyal to are different. For his dedication to Lord and Lady Grantham, and the Dowager, and Lady Mary, she knows that she's been right alongside him, fighting in the corners of Lady Edith, Lady Sybil, Mr. Branson, and now Mrs. Crawley.

It's another way in which they balance each other so well, really. She thinks she just might keep that observation to herself, though.

She's reaching for her tea when she hears him clear his throat in the doorway.

"You can come _in,_ Mr. Carson. There's no need to lurk."

She swivels around to smile at him, and notices his eyes trained on her skirt. She follows his gaze to the pocket, where a corner of his handkerchief is peeking out from the stiff black fabric. She licks her lips and stands, and she feels the fabric shift in her pocket, tucking itself away again. She opens her mouth to mention it, then closes it again.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Carson?"

"No," he says hesitantly, forcing himself to breathe normally. "Although I do have something I need to discuss, if you're available later on. I could use an outside opinion."

"Of course," she smiles, and her heart races as their eyes meet.

He nods, and leaves for his own office.

She reaches into her pocket to reassure herself that the small cotton square is, indeed, safely tucked away. Brushing her fingers on it and then squeezing it to her palm, she closes her eyes and inhales deeply; she imagines she can still smell the faint aftershave and soap, from the night when he stood in this very room and held her so lovingly in his arms.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

She watches as he pours the sherry into her glass.

"You _cannot_ allow him to blackmail you like this. And, before you ask, Thomas has told me the whole story."

' _Thomas,'_ he thinks. _Not 'Mr. Barrow.' Of course … not now, not when she's going to be fighting in his corner._

It's why he's there, really - why he wanted to speak to her. He is a bit afraid that his outright disgust at what's been happening is coloring his opinion of it all. He's rather counting on her to provide an alternative picture.

"I'm only sorry you had to listen to such horrors," he says. And he _is_ sorry … kind of. Although, after the entire situation with Ethel, perhaps Mrs. Hughes is not quite as delicate as he'd like to believe her to be.

"Why? Do you think Thomas is the first man of _that sort_ that I've ever come across?"

She can't possibly meet his eyes. She can't really even believe they're _having_ this conversation.

"Well, I would _hope_ so!"

"Well, he isn't." _Here goes nothing,_ she thinks. "And I'll tell you something else … I think James may have led him on."

She's certain as soon as she utters the words that they were the very _last_ ones Mr. Carson expected to hear. And she's now _very_ grateful that he's sought her out for this chat, because he clearly only had a very one-sided version of what had happened.

" _What?!_ Oh, I cannot listen to such … allegations."

He feels as though he's going to burst with the shock of what she's saying.

"Oh, calm down," she chides him. "I don't mean _deliberately._ But he's a vain and silly flirt. He may have given Thomas the wrong impression without meaning to."

His incredulity is now complete. "I can hardly believe we're _having_ this conversation."

"Well, maybe not. But I won't stand by and let that young whippersnapper ruin a man for the rest of his life. Not a man who was wounded in the service of king and country!" She takes a deep breath and a sip of her sherry.

"We may have no choice," he sighs. "These practices with which you're apparently so _familiar_ are against the law."

It's all she can do not to roll her eyes at him. "I know that," she reassures him.

"Very well then. If we stand up to James and he goes to the police, it'll only put Thomas in prison - which he will _not_ thank you for."

She mulls through that thought for a moment as he drains his glass.

"No," she admits, "I suppose not. And I know he's been difficult to have here, to have _back_ here, but I just cannot believe that Thomas - someone who is so cunning and sharp - would have made … _assumptions_ about James. Not without at least a bit of encouragement."

"From whom?"

She sits back and raises her eyebrows at him.

"Oh … surely not," he mutters.

"She's Alfred's aunt," Mrs. Hughes reminds him. "And she and Thomas certainly don't appear very friendly lately."

She watches as he processes this new information.

"Perhaps," he allows. "But I still don't see a way out of it all."

And then something occurs to her; he can see it in her eyes.

"What?" he asks cautiously. "What are you thinking, Mrs. Hughes?"

She tilts her head, contemplating … wondering.

"Never you mind," she says eventually. "Perhaps it's best that you not know. And I'm not sure it's a good idea, anyhow." She looks up at him again. "But I'm not giving up, Mr. Carson."

"He has two days."

"A lot can happen in two days, Mr. Carson."

He quirks an eyebrow at her, but she sips her drink in silence.

"I daresay I'll find out what you're plotting eventually," he grumbles.

She laughs at this, a light sound that lifts his spirits a bit.

"If I can sort it, then yes, Mr. Carson. You'll find out eventually."

"I see." The topic of conversation changes then, for which Mr. Carson is grateful. When he'd invited her opinion, he'd certainly never expected to have more to ponder when he _left_ her than he had when he arrived.

She was a bit taken aback that he'd segued so easily away from the topic of her plotting, but she's glad of it. She doesn't really have a plan, per se, but she's wondering if perhaps Mrs. Crawley might be persuaded to help. At the very least, she may be able to offer suggestions that would ensure that Thomas could find respectable work.

She shakes her head and goes to place her empty glass on the tray.

But Mr. Carson is watching her, waiting … and, when she leans over to put the glass down, _he_ reaches for it as well, intercepting its landing and brushing her fingers with his own - rather slowly.

She breathes in a soft gasp, and when her eyes meet his she's shocked by the hint of _teasing_ she spies there.

 _That was no accident._

She's _stunned._ There's no other word to describe it. She's stunned … and _speechless._ She mindlessly draws her lip under her teeth, and feels herself flush under his steady gaze.

The sound of the glass being placed on the tray clinks softly, and Mrs. Hughes sees the hint of a satisfied smirk come to Mr. Carson's lips.

She replays it all in her head over the next couple of seconds and realizes that, yes, she assessed the situation quite accurately, indeed:

 _Charles Carson, master of concealing his emotions, of being in charge, of dignity, grace, and poise, just_ _ **flirted**_ _with me._

 _Well,_ she thinks as she twists her mouth in an attempt not to smile, _**two**_ _can play at_ _ **that**_ _game._

* * *

 **Please leave a review if you're so inclined. I do love hearing your thoughts. x**


	7. Years

_**I know that if we give this a little time**_

 _ **It'll only bring us closer.**_

* * *

 _ **December 21, 1920**_

The snow is falling softly when Mrs. Hughes steps out for some fresh air. It's dusk, and she doesn't bother buttoning herself up in her heavy coat but opts for a knit shawl instead. She just needs a few moments to herself, away from the hustle and bustle, from the overly-sweet smells emanating from the kitchen and the heady scent of pine that's pervading every room of the Abbey. The family's ornaments have been brought down and the tree is being decorated at this very moment, so she knows she won't be needed for at least a half hour.

The housekeeper closes the door gently, pulls the knit wrap more tightly around herself, and steps off the stoop. She moves along the side of the house a bit, close enough to be protected from the wind but far enough to see beyond the walls of the courtyard. She smiles when she realizes the soft, fluffy flakes are falling onto her hair. Breathing deeply, she wills the cold air to cleanse her mind, and she giggles when a flake lands on the tip of her nose; she feels it melt and then wipes at it with the edge of her knuckle. She thinks she'll stay only a few minutes, heading back in before anyone misses her.

As she watches the snow falling, she's brought back to Christmases past, to times on the farm: seeing Da bring the tree home; helping Becky string berries together for garlands; watching Mam prepare the goose. They were lean times, to be sure, but Christmas always held something special, something _magical,_ for young Elsie Hughes.

But now she's not that young farm girl anymore – she said as much to Mr. Carson years ago, on that afternoon when the sad look in the butler's eyes had only reaffirmed her choice not to be whisked away on the arm of Joe Burns toward a life that had, once again, tried to dig its claws into her and drag her back. No, she's come a long way from those days.

 _And for what?_

She muses on how all the land for as far as she can see belongs to his Lordship. She's fortunate to be here, to have made her way as housekeeper on an estate such as this, and she's grateful – really. She earns enough to keep Becky's care managed, which has long been first and foremost in her mind.

And now, after all these years of working hard, of achieving a position of respect in a stately home – and she's not vain, but she knows she has the respect of the staff _and_ the family – she finds herself … wanting. She feels as though her life lacks something, and now she knows precisely what it is. For so long, she linked it to the life she was trying to run from, and it's only recently that she's decided maybe, just _maybe,_ it can be found right here in the one she was running _toward._

The realization has opened her mind to infinite possibilities, most of which involve retirement in a small cottage on the Abbey grounds, with Mr. Carson's slippers next to hers in an armoire, and her favourite tea set on a shelf near the kitchen sink.

A smile comes to her lips as she thinks back over the past few months. He's not been as forward as the evening when he'd so slowly and deliberately brushed his fingers over hers, but she's tried a bit of pushing of her own: touching his hand when she passes him a cup of tea; bumping her knee against his under the table; being sure to keep watch over him as the holiday approaches and, with it, his heightened stress level.

 _Like a wife,_ she thinks with a jolt.

 _Well, not quite,_ she amends instantly.

She realizes with a small pang in that hidden-away part of her heart that, if that were true, she'd not have been _afraid_ when she did all of those things she's just thought of, and yet they have been thrillingly frightening things to do in the midst of this world of theirs, where physical contact is almost forbidden and rarely goes unnoticed. But she had promised herself that she'd push him, and she feels she has been. He's a hard man to change, and she accepts that any change that happens will be months, if not _years,_ in the making.

Still, she's not one to give up on a goal. She wonders if he even _realizes_ what she's doing … if he sees the steps she's been taking, the ways in which she's trying to tell him that she returns the sentiment he'd sung so beautifully to her that afternoon when she'd caught him out. She's never been one for broadcasting her heart to the world and is not one for speaking aloud her innermost feelings, but she's almost certain that he knows regardless. They are so alike in that way, after all.

 _Well, if he doesn't understand how you feel now, he will come Christmas._

She smiles as she thinks of the gift she has for him, and wonders how, specifically, to get it to him. She could easily wrap it and present it to him Christmas night, as has become their custom these past few years. But she rather thinks that if she does that, the man will collapse on the spot. The gift itself will shock him, but if he picks up on the significance of its minute details, well ...

 _No, better to find another way._

"Mrs. Hughes?"

His deep, rumbling voice sounding directly behind her makes her jump, and he reaches out to rest a hand on her arm to still her.

"What are you doing out here in the cold?" he asks.

She turns to face him, and her warm smile is returned by his own.

"I needed a few moments of peace away from the house," she admits. "And a healthy dose of fresh air." She tilts her head, examining his features, focusing on his breath coming in foggy puffs as he speaks. "How long have you been watching me?"

He hums thoughtfully, but doesn't answer the question; instead he reaches out – slowly, but deliberately – to touch her hand.

"You're freezing," he assesses, letting her hand go and fingering her knit shawl. "This is barely doing anything; won't you come back inside?"

"I shall," she says, reassuring him. "I just … well, I suppose I was lost in thought, Mr. Carson. The snow - it's so beautiful, so _peaceful._ It reminds me of my childhood."

He removes the shawl from her shoulders and shakes the snow off, then returns it, wrapping it a bit more tightly around her. He's careful not to touch her, ever the skilled valet in his day, but just the sweetness of the action warms her swiftly from the inside. It's the first time that she wonders if perhaps he's caring for her, too … as he might for his wife.

 _Which you're not._

"If I try," he says softly, "I can see a sprightly lass with a head full of auburn curls, running through the snow and laughing, and catching the flakes upon her tongue."

She flashes a brilliant smile at that, her eyes alight with mirth.

"Aye," she answers, biting down on that lip again. "And making wishes on every one."

He reaches up and brushes a rather large clump of snowflakes from her hair.

"And have any of them come true?" he whispers.

She tucks her chin and takes a deep, fortifying breath.

"I'm working on it," she whispers back.

"Hm."

"I think it's time, Mr. Carson. If I stay out much longer, I fear I truly _shall_ freeze."

He reaches out to open the door for her.

"Well," he murmurs, his breath warm on her temple as she passes in front of him, "we can't have that."

"No," she agrees, and she turns to face him briefly. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

"For what?" he asks, suddenly lost to the brilliance of her dancing eyes.

"For finding me," she says softly.

She takes a few steps and pauses, waits for him to close and lock the door behind them both.

As he moves toward her, he glances over her shoulder and down the corridor to verify that the servants' hall is, indeed, empty.

"Many years, Mrs. Hughes."

She's mid-way through removing her shawl, and he helps her off with the rest of it before making his way past her, toward the corridor and, by extension, his pantry.

"I'm sorry?"

He turns and raises his eyebrows, looking quite serious as he stands tall and tugs at his waistcoat, a sure sign to her that he's become a bit more uncomfortable - a bit more _formal_ \- now they're back inside.

"The answer to your question," he replies, and he turns on his heel and heads to his office, leaving her standing there.

It takes her a moment, and when she remembers she almost stumbles right there in the doorway.

 _Years,_ she thinks, her face flushing hotly.

 _He's been watching you for_ _ **years.**_

* * *

 **A/N: Just a short update today.**

 **Thank you to all you lovely readers and ESPECIALLY to those who are reviewing this fic. I do so appreciate hearing from you, and am not above begging for you to continue leaving me little notes here. Next chapter is Christmas, which was supposed to be at the end of this, but I felt it better to keep it separate. xx**


	8. Bridging Dreams

**A/N: Wow! Thanks so much for the amazing reviews for the last chapter - especially you Guest Reviewers, as I cannot send you a direct message like I can the non-Guests.**

 **This is the gift chapter. As my lovely friend dibdab4 says, "it may rot your teeth." Who knows? I hope it's feelsy and just Christmas Chelsie Cheer. The gifts mentioned have undoubtedly been used in other fics, but I assure you that no "theft" of any ideas was intended. (I've been down that road before, tyvm ... so just mentioning that.)**

 **We are now between S3 Ep 8 and the S3 CS, in the one-year gap that we "officially" know nothing about.**

 **Let's just pretend this all happened, okay? Okay. :)**

 **Cheers! xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **And all that night the snow came down  
To heal the scars our lives had found  
And the dreams that lay broken …  
And there upon a bridge of dreams  
Across the night we walked unseen  
With no words ever spoken …**_

* * *

 _ **Christmas, 1920**_

It's just gone eleven when he hears her footsteps coming down the corridor, and he thinks his heart might have skipped a beat. Placing a hand in his jacket pocket for what must be the thousandth time, he reassures himself that the gift is still tucked safely away. He had not dared leave it on his desk; she's in his pantry so frequently that she'd surely have spotted it, and he doesn't _quite_ trust her not to snoop.

He knows he'll be tipping his hand even further when she opens this gift – _and_ the one he's left elsewhere for her to find later. Thinking back over the past couple of days, ever since finding her standing in the falling snow, he's not sure at all if _either_ of the gifts he has for her shows sound judgement. They seem rather …

 _Personal. They're_ _ **personal**_ _gifts. They're not gifts that professionals give one another._

"They've all gone up, then?" she asks from the doorway.

She sounds tired; he moves to stand, but she waves him back down. As he takes his seat again, he examines her features intently.

"A bit tired, yes," she says without him even asking, and she approaches the table. "But that's no excuse not to give you … _this."_

She pulls her hand from behind her back and presents him with a small box, a happy smile lighting her features.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson."

He smiles and tilts his head toward her. "Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes."

She peers into his cup and notices it empty.

"There's wine," he says abruptly. "If you'd like, I can bring it in here."

"What about the staff?" She looks around, but only sees Mrs. Patmore in the kitchen.

"I've sent them all to bed," he confirms. "It's been a long day for them, too."

"Still …"

He rises from his chair upon seeing her still-hesitant expression, and motions for her to head back to her sitting room … or his.

She smirks and playfully snatches his gift back from the table, then heads for his pantry, shaking her head in amusement at his silent insistence.

"I've already banked my fire," she explains, and he mutters something in agreement as he moves to close his door.

She places his gift by his seat at the table, smiling inwardly. It's a perfectly appropriate gift, but she has come to think of it as the _decoy._ She's left the more important gift for him to find later, and she only hopes that he won't think it too forward of her. She hemmed and hawed about it for weeks, but every time his eyes twinkle when they speak, she thinks it'll be worth the risk. And she has no doubt that he'll understand what she's trying to say with it – words that she could put into a gift but never speak aloud.

 _Not yet, anyhow._

"Here we are," he says, and she takes the glass from him and sits.

"Thank you," she breathes, and she takes her seat and sips the wine. "Oh, this is very good."

"I thought you'd approve," he smiles. "Ah," he adds lightly, his eyes resting on the wrapped package sitting on the table. "I almost forgot."

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, placing it on the table and pushing it toward her.

The blood rushes from her upper body, and she's _very_ grateful to be sitting.

"Mr. Carson?" she manages in a murmur, her voice catching. She's trembling slightly, and grasps the glass more firmly to steady herself.

The box is small, and distinctly _jewelry_ shaped. It barely holds its bow, and she's terrified of what is in it.

 _Surely not …_

She sips the wine again, a rather large gulp, and forces herself to set the glass on the table.

"You first," she manages, motioning to the gift she'd given him.

"If you insist, Mrs. Hughes."

"I do."

He takes the box and turns it in his hands. He's fairly certain that he knows what's in it, and he unties the delicate, red bow and sets the ribbon aside before sliding the paper off.

"Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he says, clearly happy. It's a new supply of shaving soap – his favorite scent, as she well knows.

It's her favorite, too, of course.

"You're welcome," she replies. "I fear it will pale in comparison to what's in _this_ box, however."

But he surprises her.

"You'll be happy to know that I did not _purchase_ what's in that box," he explains, eyebrows raised.

"Oh! I didn't realize I was sharing the room with a common criminal." Her eyes are alight with teasing as she peers over the rim of her glass, but the teasing has calmed her a bit.

His eyes widen. "I didn't _steal_ it!" He's horrified, and she laughs outright now.

"No, I didn't honestly think that you did," she says reassuringly, and she places her glass on the table and takes the small box with a remarkably steady hand.

"Just open it and you'll see," he says softly.

Mrs. Hughes removes the paper and does, indeed, find a hinged jewelry box in her hands. She takes a deep breath and lifts the lid.

He watches her eyes and mouth open wider, and he is rather proud that he's well and truly _shocked_ her.

"My … my _brooch_ … but …" Her eyes are welling up, and she turns to face him. _"How?"_

Set inside the box is her pearl brooch – the one that Mam gave her the year when she moved to Downton, the family heirloom that had been gifted from Da's mother to Mam on her parents' wedding day. It had been Mam's only possession of value, and Mrs. Hughes had worn it proudly as housekeeper for many years – until one of the pearl "petals" in the floral design had come loose and fallen out. She'd managed to locate it on the floor, but the day had been busy and she'd simply removed the brooch and tucked it and the pearl in …

"Oh … of course," she whispered, staring at him again. "In my _desk._ You helped me to fix the drawer when it was sticking …"

"And I spied the brooch – _and_ the wayward pearl. Yes." His admission seems almost guilty, as though he almost regrets having gone back in and nicked it later that day. "I noticed that you'd stopped wearing it long ago, and when I saw it, I realized why."

"But to have had it _repaired,_ Mr. Carson. It's … it's too much." A tear escapes her eye, and she wipes it away almost angrily.

"It's not," he insists gently. "I know the brooch must mean a great deal to you; you used to wear it almost daily. And it's a lovely piece that doesn't deserve to spend its days in a drawer."

The question remained unasked, for which she was grateful. The truth was that she'd not had it repaired herself because she was fairly certain she couldn't have afforded the jeweler's price for doing so. What's more, sentimental value aside, the brooch is the only jewelry of real quality that she _owns._ The fact that he'd have done this for her is positively overwhelming, partially because she knows that he doesn't realize the value of the gesture.

Her reply comes out in a rushed whisper. "I … Thank you, Mr. Carson. I'm not sure you know quite how much it means to me that you've done this."

She takes the brooch from the box and pins it to her dress, back in its rightful place below the center of her collar. It's rather hidden in the pattern of the dress's white panel, but no matter.

"You're very welcome. And now you see I was telling the truth: I didn't purchase it."

"Yes," she admits. "That much is true." She's twisting her hands in her lap, and then looks up at him from underneath her eyelashes. "And this gift that you decidedly did not purchase may be the most thoughtful one that I've ever received."

"Well," he says, a bit uncomfortably, "as long as you can forgive me for taking something from your desk."

"I think I can. _Eventually."_

She quirks an eyebrow at him, making him chuckle.

They finish their wine and he collects their glasses.

"I'll take care of these," he tells her once they reach the bottom of the staircase, lifting the glassware slightly. "You've admitted you're already exhausted, and I've already kept you much too late."

She nods, fingering the brooch. "For which I am glad. Thank you again, Mr. Carson. I'm very touched that you've done this for me."

He's lost in her eyes for a moment, swimming in the sea of blue. "Then it was worth my transgression," he replies, smiling at her. "Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good night, Mr. Carson."

He watches her walk up the stairs and then heads to the kitchen to clean their glasses and the crystal decanter, humming a Christmas carol to himself after he realizes that Mrs. Patmore is, thankfully, nowhere in sight. It's been a lovely evening, and he doesn't fancy having to explain any of it to _her._

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Mr. Carson makes his way from the men's bath back to his bedroom. He smiles when he sees the soaps from the housekeeper on his dresser, and congratulates himself on having gone ahead and gotten her brooch fixed. He was so worried she'd be offended, but it certainly seems that wasn't the case. The jeweler had told him the brooch was quite old, and Mr. Carson wonders if it may have belonged to a grandmother. Mrs. Hughes rarely talks about any family, save the aunt and uncle whose profiles grace the wall in her sitting room, and while he was curious upon seeing her reaction to having the brooch whole once again, he doesn't have it in him to ask her about its origins. It's one thing to speak through gestures and brief touches of the hand, but quite another to ask probing questions about things she's not brought up herself.

He's just hung his dressing gown when he notices something peculiar resting on the slightly-battered trunk across the room. He stares at it for a moment, questioning how it could possibly have _gotten_ there, even though he's sure he knows the answer. It had to have been Mrs. Hughes; no one else would _dare_ enter his room except for the maid who cleans it, and no one but the housekeeper would have left a bold, tartan-patterned bow behind.

It's perfectly formed, this bow, with multiple loops and two tails that trail down the front of the trunk on which it's resting. He cocks his head, curious, and chuckles to himself as he realizes belatedly that perhaps he's not the only one who has been playing Father Christmas, sneaking into rooms and leaving gifts behind. He foolishly sweeps his gaze around the room, looking for a gift box of some sort, before it dawns on him _why_ the bow is, in fact, atop the trunk to begin with.

He walks over to the trunk and removes the bow, laying it on the chair in the corner. But then he immediately changes his mind and puts the bow on the nightstand, deciding he should pull the trunk over to the chair to open it instead of kneeling on the floor and struggling to get back up afterward.

He moves the trunk, sits, takes a deep breath … and opens the lid.

He's grateful he chose to sit, as the wind is completely knocked out of him by the sight of what rests atop the boxes, books, and photographs in the trunk. He isn't sure what he was expecting, but it most definitely wasn't what he's looking at now.

 _She can't have done … How?_ _ **When?**_

His thoughts are muddled as he reaches out for what is clearly his true gift – one she was obviously challenged to wrap in a sensible way and so she found a much more creative one. Grateful that she left it for him to find alone, he sets it on his lap.

It's an afghan, knit of yarn that is extremely warm and soft, yet clearly sturdy enough to hold a discernible pattern. His mind whispers that perhaps this is why she's been so exhausted recently, staying up much later than he knew in order to get the thing knit. It never dawns on him that she didn't make it herself; he knows immediately that her hands crafted every single, loving stitch. And it's not a woman's blanket, that he's sure of; the pattern seems rather masculine, and it reminds him of something, only he can't quite place –

 _Oh. Of course._ He feels his face flush scarlet, and he knows precisely why the pattern is familiar.

He looks across the room to his armoire; it's closed up tightly, but his mind's eye sees through the door to his cricket whites inside, to the sweater folded neatly and resting on the second-to-top shelf.

He swallows the bit of emotion that is growing in his throat and unfolds the blanket. It's not quite large enough to be a counterpane, he thinks, but it will certainly keep him warm enough. As he continues to unfold the layers, an envelope is revealed; he recognizes her handwriting and lays it aside, his attention now focused on the edging of the blanket.

There, he notices a blue outer border; it's a shade that he knows by heart, having spent so much time staring into it over the years, and a sharp laugh escapes his lips as he thinks just how _bold_ it was of her to include it. If she were any other woman, he'd have seen it instantly as a sign of vanity.

But she's not any other woman, and as he stands and holds the entire afghan up, he notices that the blue edging goes around all four sides, completely encircling the white, cable-knit pattern. Upon closer examination, he notices that the blue edging is just slightly uneven in one spot, as if she'd dropped or added a couple of stitches without realizing it.

The thought makes his heart sing, the imperfection making the gift seem more real, more _her._ Mr. Carson is a man in love, that much he's accepted by this point, but the object of his affection is, like him, far from perfect. He thinks it's one of his favorite things about her.

He's moved – very moved, in fact – and quite glad, indeed, that she's not only gifted him with this beautiful item, but that she also thought to give him privacy in which to open it.

He remembers the envelope, and spreads the blanket on his bed before resuming his place in the chair and removing the card in order to read it.

The image on the front is generic, showing a snow-covered, tree-lined lane with a sleigh passing through. He opens the card with a slightly-trembling hand and reads the brief message in a murmur:

 _To keep you warm on a cold winter's night, so that you may dream glorious dreams as the snow falls around you._

 _E. Hughes_

He looks again at the blanket, and imagines that yes, he most certainly will dream glorious dreams tonight … dreams in which a distinguished butler, once so alone and buttoned-up and cold, has been changed by one thoughtful, determined housekeeper, who has cast a ribbon of caring and – yes, he's almost sure of it now – _love_ that surrounds and warms him completely.

He wonders what her reaction was upon returning to her own room tonight – if she found the gift he'd left ( _of course, she must have …_ ) and whether the note enclosed within made her laugh, given the circumstances of the one now resting before him.

 _One thing is certain,_ he thinks. _Tomorrow's breakfast has the potential to be very interesting, indeed._

He places the card back in its envelope and tucks it securely in the back flap of a book, and then places them in the drawer nightstand by his bed.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Mrs. Hughes hadn't gone straight up to her room, however. After the shock of seeing her brooch resting in its newly-acquired box she'd been anything but tired, and so she had made her way to his Lordship's library, having spent a quarter of an hour perusing the titles before selecting one and adding it to the ledger along with her name.

She turned off the light and took the long way back to her room, stopping just in front of the dividing door and peering through the glass, smiling as she noticed a sliver of light escaping from underneath Mr. Carson's doorway and filtering out into the otherwise darkened corridor of the men's quarters, and wondering if he thought to open the trunk yet.

But now she opens her own door and reaches for the light. She spots the package immediately as it's sitting prominently in the center of her small bed, and she is thoroughly confused by its presence. None of the other staff ever gift her with anything like what might be in a box of that size and shape, not even Mrs. Patmore. She wonders if it may be from Anna, although she can't imagine _why_ the woman would do such a thing.

She ignores it for the time being, choosing instead to change for bed and wash up. She plaits her hair, tying the bottom off, and then sits on the bed at last, drawing the box into her lap.

There's no ribbon, no card – nothing to distinguish it as a Christmas gift. She knows she's not ordered anything that would have been delivered, either; with a small shrug, she pulls at the tie and removes the string and the paper from the box.

She opens the box, and sees an envelope resting atop some tissue paper, the paper concealing what is inside. She expected that the box might contain _shoes,_ only that's not likely at all. Her curiosity gets the better of her and she sets aside the envelope before lifting the tissue away.

Resting beneath is a lovely pair of lady's slippers. They are soft to the touch and grey in color – not elegant, like the ones the girls and Lady Grantham wear, but clearly of quality nonetheless. Curious, she removes one from the box and slides it over her bare foot; it fits perfectly, as she'd surmised it would, and she shakes her head slowly in wonder as she puts the second one on as well.

She reaches for the envelope, which bears no writing on the outside. She's wholly unprepared for what she finds inside of it, still under the assumption that this gift is, for some reason, from one of the female members of staff.

 _Dear Mrs. Hughes,_ she reads, and her heart almost stops as she recognizes the script. She flips the paper over instantly, needing a moment to gather herself before she reads the rest of the words; she's glad she took the time once she sees them.

 _To keep you warm on a cold winter's night, particularly as you're given to solitary trips out in the snow._

 _Yours,_

 _C. Carson_

She reads it three times before sliding the card back into its envelope and placing it inside the box. She replaces the lid and gets up to tuck the box safely away in her armoire, where her other slippers – not as warm, definitely not new, and not nearly as beautiful – are tucked away. The new ones she takes off, and places them lovingly side-by-side just next to her bed.

As she climbs into bed and pulls up the quilt, she wonders if he's also tucking himself in for the night, wonders what he thought of the blanket she'd made for him, which she's sure he's found by now. She thinks for a crazy second that she can't possibly keep the slippers, but then she imagines the look of hurt that might appear on his face if she were to return them … and she imagines what she, herself, would feel if he tried to refuse the afghan. No, she thinks … she'll keep them.

She sighs as she realizes she's left the light on and gets up to turn it off before tucking herself back in. Rolling over onto her side, a whisper of a thought floats through her mind just before she falls asleep:

 _Tomorrow's breakfast will prove quite interesting, indeed._

* * *

 **If you have a few moments, I'd love a review to hear what you thought! x**


	9. Between the Lines

**_So take a chance and take your time,_**

 ** _Reading my face between the lines._**

 ** _The kind of love you never knew -_**

 ** _Oh, it's a good heart_**

 ** _From me to you._**

* * *

 _ **Boxing Day, 1920**_

Mr. Carson wakes to the sound of the hall boy's knock, which is unusual as he is often dressed by the time it comes. He spreads his fingers and flexes them, trying to get the blood to flow back into the numb areas. It isn't a new sensation, but he is annoyed by it nonetheless.

When he actually opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is a sea of white covering his chest. The corners of his mouth turn up in a bit of a smile. He gathers up a section of the blanket and lifts it to his nose, sniffing deeply, and his heart thuds as he realizes that the blanket smells just like _her_ – some combination of wood fire smoke, vanilla, and something slightly floral that he can't quite identify. He knows that the blanket will soon take on aspects of _his_ scent as well; with a jolt, he understands that, for a brief while, it will be a combination of _both_ their scents before the aspects that are decidedly hers fade completely.

He loves how she was able to make such a thing of beauty from seemingly nothing. He didn't even realize she _could_ knit, but clearly she can; but that she would use this talent to craft something whose sole purpose was to make _his_ life more comfortable? The thought amazes him.

The blanket is such an _intimate_ thing, he thinks, the way it represents the two of them woven together, both physically and symbolically, and this musing only conjures up much more risqué images of them woven together. A flush creeps up his chest and heats his face; he's horrified at how quickly these wide-awake thoughts have jumped to images that previously only existed in dreams.

Instantly, like an explosion, the craving to experience that – _all_ of it – on a daily basis is almost overwhelming; to nurture and be nurtured in return, without reservation; to love her with everything he has, and to perhaps even be the _recipient_ of such a love from her in exchange ... The hope to have that is everything to him now, only he has no idea if he can ever achieve it, and he has no indication that she wants the same.

And he certainly can't _ask_ her.

 _Best to wait for a sign from her,_ he thinks, and he vows that he'll wait forever if that's what it takes, because he knows that having all that he dreams of will be worth any wait he needs to endure. To have a woman of such grace and charm entrust her life to his caring is almost more than he can fathom. He won't press her, and he will follow her lead completely.

He sits slowly and places his feet on the blessedly-cold floor, a tactile thing that grounds him, preparing him for tackling his day.

After rising and lovingly folding the afghan, he tucks it safely away in the trunk; he retrieves the bow and the card, hiding them away, too. They've become his most precious possessions, these three things, and he can't bear for anyone else to see them.

With an extra (and, due to the late hour, quite _necessary)_ spring in his step, he wraps his dressing gown tightly around himself and steps out to the men's bath in order to quickly wash – with some decidedly _cold_ water.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes opens her eyes when as the maid's knock sounds softly.

"Thank you," she calls out, her voice thick with sleep, and she rolls onto her back and tries to recall the remnants of what had been a rather lovely dream … small cottage, hand-holding by the side of the creek, a crackling fire, and a soft, lingering kiss.

She's grateful that the wake-up knock came when it did. She wasn't quite sure where the dream had been headed, and she would rather not create images in her mind that were either wholly unrealistic or, perhaps, even somewhat frightening.

Turning her mind toward memories of last night, she raises herself up on one elbow and reaches out for the brooch, which she'd left on the bedside table.

She looks carefully at the design now, unable to discern for certain which petal it was that had been loosened and replaced. The jeweler had done a remarkable job. She fingers each stone, turning the entire pin around in her hand and smiling broadly as she considers the sentiment behind Mr. Carson's decision to have it repaired.

She's underestimated him, she thinks. She'd never have expected anything so _personal_ from him – not now, anyhow, and certainly not for a long while still. But it appears he's just as much of a plotter as she … and just as adept at expressing his feelings through objects and gestures when words are difficult to come by.

 _Or when they are inadequate._

That's really what she keeps coming back to. She has all these _feelings_ inside, and they're new mixed with old, familiar with strange, all muddled up into a mess she can't quite manage to pull apart and examine. And she truly believes that, were she to attempt to put any single one of them into spoken words, well … what would spill from her lips would likely be woefully inadequate, indeed.

And so she'd chosen to knit her feelings into a blanket, had decided to wrap him up in her caring in a very different way. She wonders what he made of it, but she knows she'll find out soon enough.

She rises from the bed and dons her dressing gown before heading out into the corridor to the women's bath.

A movement on the other side of the dividing door catches her eye, and a peek through the glass reveals a dressing-gown clad butler on his way back from the men's bath. He spots her as well; she raises her hand slightly, haltingly, in a gentle wave … a gesture that he returns before ducking back in his door.

 _He's running late today,_ is all she can think.

Ten minutes later, she wonders how long it's been that she's been so knowledgeable about his early morning routine. The thought makes her flush, and she almost sticks herself with the pin as she's sliding it through her dress.

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Carson." The sound of tired voices mixes with the loud scrape of their chairs, but he waves them down before they've quite managed to stand.

"Good morning," he returns, taking his seat. He's late, having taken a ridiculously long time dressing this morning, and he chides himself for acting no better than an errant, lovesick schoolboy.

"Here you are." Mrs. Hughes pours his tea and passes him the cup; he takes it, his fingertips brushing the side of her thumb.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, quite well," she replies, nodding at Ivy, who has just delivered a plate of sausages.

Remembering that the Bateses would be arriving a bit late this morning, and noting that the others were engaged in other conversations, she leaned in just a bit closer to him and added in a hush, "And you? It was rather cold last night." She bites down on her lip again, uncertainty flickering on her face.

"I did, Mrs. Hughes," he reassures her. Then, remembering the note, he adds, "In fact, I dreamed glorious dreams."

"Did you?" She stirs her tea and takes a tentative sip, feeling the curls of steam climb up her face.

He hums a reply, concentrating determinedly on cutting the food on his plate.

"I had the most peculiar thing happen, Mr. Carson," she says quietly. "It appears someone snuck into my room and left a parcel for me to find."

"Is that so? I hope it was nothing bad."

"Oh, no; quite the opposite. Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

"Once or twice, but I don't think it's common." He flicks his gaze toward Miss O'Brien and Mr. Barrow, and Mrs. Hughes almost chokes on her tea, grateful that they are blissfully unaware of the conversation occurring between their heads of staff.

"If it made you uncomfortable," he adds, "then perhaps you should consider locking your door more regularly." He takes a bite of food and chews.

"Oh, I wasn't made uncomfortable by it, Mr. Carson. It was just … unexpected."

He reaches for his toast. "I suppose we should all be grateful that only _you_ hold an extra key to all of our rooms, Mrs. Hughes. I wouldn't want just anyone sneaking about."

She smirks slightly, marveling at how he's both chiding her for her own transgression and complimenting her on her trustworthiness in the same breath.

"I suppose not," she says.

"So, was Father Christmas was good to you, Mrs. Hughes?" He says it in a teasing voice, as Mrs. Patmore is nearby, but Mrs. Hughes waits long enough to answer that the cook has to return to the kitchen or else risk them knowing that she's waiting for the housekeeper to speak.

"Really, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes says. "I think I'm rather too old for _Father Christmas_ to be leaving me anything. Besides, this package was rather nicer than any trinkets I received from him as a lass."

"It was a … _fitting_ gift, then? Your mystery package?"

She turns to him and flashes a kind smile. "Perfectly."

He raises a brow at her, but before either of them can say anything further, the Bateses come into the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Bates greets them. "I'm sorry that we've interrupted breakfast."

"No matter, Mr. Bates," the butler replies. "We're a bit behind this morning."

As the couple takes their seats, Mrs. Hughes feels the butler's eyes on her. She glances to her left and finds his gaze focused on her brooch.

"I've not seen that brooch in quite some time," he says, covering up any impropriety at having been staring so blatantly at the thing. Mr. Bates and Anna have taken their seats, after all, and they're much more attentive to the butler and housekeeper than anyone else seated around the table.

"It's a family heirloom," she explains quietly. "It belonged to my father's mother, and she gave it to my mother as a gift when my parents were married. One of the stones came loose, and I just recently had it repaired." She has no idea how she's able to lie so smoothly, and wonders if it's the knowledge that he's in on the lie with her that makes it easier.

"I'd forgotten how lovely it looks on you," he murmurs, low enough that only she can make out the words.

Her smile shines for but a few seconds, but he can't help but see it.

"It's one of my most prized possessions," she whispers. "Particularly now that it's been restored."

Mrs. Hughes spots the hint of pride in his eyes before he whisks it away again.

As the bells ring, and everyone stands to begin their busy day, Mrs. Hughes thinks that this may have been her favorite Christmas in a very, very long time.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so one small detail that I hadn't considered before is that servants' bedroom doors likely didn't always lock. No matter; just go with it.**

 **Thanks for all of your support. I'd love a review if you're so inclined, and I do hope you enjoyed this little morning scene. It was never my intention to write it, but those reviews do occasionally produce ideas. xx**


	10. An Unexpected Season

**A/N: Thank you all for your continued, lovely reviews.** **This one's for OSUSprinks, who sparked a little idea.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Close your eyes and think of me**_

 _ **And soon I will be there …**_

 _ **Soon I'll be knocking upon your door.**_

* * *

 _ **Late April, 1921**_

Mrs. Hughes raises her hand and knocks once on the door to the butler's pantry, pushing it further open as she does so. He never really closes it during the day although she feels that, for his own sanity at times, he really _should._

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Carson?"

He doesn't look up from the wine he's decanting, but she approaches his desk and watches him finish, her hands clasped before her.

"I did," he replies, righting the now-empty bottle with a flourish and before setting it down on the desk. He's frowning, despite the presence of what appears to be perfectly-decanted wine sitting before him.

"You don't seem terribly happy about whatever it is you have to tell me," she observes. "If we've any unexpected guests arriving, we're more than ready, I can assure you. The girls have been –"

"It's not guests," he interrupts, rising from his chair. He tugs at his waistcoat, a familiar action which indicates he truly _is_ uncomfortable about something, and he gives a little sigh.

She watches him, waiting patiently for whatever news he has to deliver.

"His Lordship has informed me that he and her Ladyship will, in fact, be spending a bit of time in London for the Season this year."

She feels her eyebrows shoot up as her heart is sinking to the bottom of her chest. _No …_

"Will they? Well, I _am_ surprised by that."

She refuses to give in to the overwhelming sense of melancholy she feels; she and Mr. Carson had discussed this between them two months ago, when Lady Grantham had mentioned to her housekeeper that they'd likely skip the Season again this year, what with Lady Mary's condition and Lady Edith having no interest in most of the social events being offered anyhow.

"As am I," he frowns. "They'll be bringing minimal staff, of course. Just Mr. Bates and Miss O'Brien – and Anna, if Lady Mary joins them."

"And you." She says it with a tiny sigh, but it does not go unnoticed by Mr. Carson.

"And me, naturally. Mr. Barrow will take over here, of course."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, I suppose he will try," she says drily.

"It will be an abbreviated trip," he reiterates. "We have some time to organize."

"How long?"

"We'll leave two weeks from tomorrow."

"No." She shakes her head. "I said that poorly. For how long will you be gone?"

Anyone passing by the open door might think they were having any old conversation about rotas or the weather, but the atmosphere is thick in the pantry, and Mrs. Hughes feels as though she is struggling for air. She's trying her best to hide it; after all, he's gone every Season and why should this one be different?

 _Because it_ _ **is**_ _different,_ she thinks. _Because they didn't go_ _ **last**_ _year. Because now we have … because we've **acknowledged** … sigh. _

She realizes too late that he's speaking again; blushing, she has to ask him to repeat himself.

"I said we'll be there through the end of July," he says slowly. "And I asked if you'd mind telling Anna. I'd rather her hear from you and not Mr. Bates, I think."

He's concerned about the housekeeper all of a sudden; he didn't expect her reaction to be enthusiastic, but she's usually a no-nonsense woman and yet she seems to be struggling. And he couldn't ignore her choice of words, either: _'How long will_ _ **you**_ _be gone.' Not_ _ **they.**_ He certainly isn't anxious to be away from her for this long, not after ...

 _Well._

But it's his job, and he does it proudly, despite whatever personal feelings he harbors.

"July," she whispers, calculating. _Three full months … Likely thirteen weeks … One letter every few days, plus the phone call …_

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She snaps her head up, then shakes it. "Of course I'll tell Anna," she says. "I agree; it would be unprofessional of me to leave it to her husband. And I can't imagine Lady Mary not wanting to take in some of the Season, if she's able."

He moves out from behind the desk, nearer to her, but stops himself before infringing upon her personal space.

"We've two weeks yet, Mrs. Hughes," he says kindly. "Chin up."

She meets his eyes guiltily. "Oh, don't you worry about me, Mr. Carson," she manages, a false lightness to her voice. "We'll manage quite well here, I expect. There's always a great deal to accomplish when the family's away."

He nods his head in agreement, then watches as she turns to leave.

Just before she reaches the door, she hears his deep, rumbling voice.

"I do hope you'll write, Mrs. Hughes."

She turns and smiles at him brilliantly, and her emotions catch in her throat when she sees the unguarded look in his eyes, that little something that tells her he'll miss her, too, and she gives him a gentle nod.

"I always do, Mr. Carson."

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

The next two weeks are, of course, unnaturally busy. Anna travels twice into Ripon with Lady Mary, whose upcoming trip requires two visits to her dressmaker in order that she might have suitable clothing that fits her expanding body. Mrs. Hughes has seen the pained look carefully tucked away in Anna's eyes, and she worries for her girl as she wonders what has been preventing the Bateses from starting a family.

There is the ongoing power struggle between the footmen, keeping Mr. Carson on his toes more than he'd like; truth be told, the butler is somewhat looking forward to a quiet, abbreviated Season in London. Her Ladyship isn't likely to host more than a few dinners, meaning that opportunities to take some of his half-days, which he usually saves up for time in London, should be easy to come by.

Mrs. Hughes keeps herself busy doing menial tasks, even helping in the laundry room in order to keep her hands – and mind – busy. She vacillates between being frustrated with herself for not spending more time with Mr. Carson while he's still here and chiding herself for behaving like a foolish young maid who is looking for ridiculous excuses to be near her beau.

 _And he's_ _ **not that,**_ she reminds herself, and she reaches for another shirt to scrub furiously against the washboard.

* * *

 _ **June, 1921**_

"Letter for you, Mrs. Hughes."

"Thank you." She takes the envelope from Mr. Barrow with barely a glance, and lays it beside her teacup.

"Mr. Carson appears to be writing rather frequently."

"Who's to say it's from Mr. Carson?"

Mr. Barrow smirks. "Well, it does look like his handwriting."

She glances at his stack of mail – all invoices, she can tell.

"Comparing it to the ones you've received?" She knows she should have left it alone, but she's hot and tired and really not in the mood to deal with him today.

"I've not received any letters," Mr. Barrow replies, hesitating in the end as he realizes he fell right into her trap.

"Really? Well, then, I thank you for keeping track of mine, Mr. Barrow. I daresay you'll let me know if any more arrive?"

She sips her tea and meets Mrs. Patmore's astonished gaze from across the room; the cook has been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the entire exchange, and has to turn on her heel and hurry off before she erupts into a fit of laughter.

Mrs. Hughes brushes her pinkie over the envelope as she rests her teacup on the saucer, pondering how much time is enough time to wait before rushing to her sitting room and ripping the damned envelope open. Another glance shows it to be thicker than the last three, and she can tell without even touching it again that he must have needed two pages instead of one.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

It's barely ten minutes later that she finds herself at her desk, her door closed (not tightly, though), and sliding the letter from its envelope.

 _20 June, 1921_

 _Dear Mrs. Hughes,_

 _Thank you for your last letter, in which you so thoughtfully explained Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley's plans for next week. I am happy to hear that she is feeling well enough to travel, of course. I was concerned when she chose to wait before joining Lord and Lady Grantham. I am still not convinced it's a good idea, but I do accept that it is not my decision to make._

She laughs at that; he _would_ think Lady Mary incapable of travel in so "delicate" a condition.

 _Not much has changed in London, I'm afraid. I believe I wrote previously about expecting dinner guests. The gentleman was a friend of his Lordship's from their days together at school, and he and his wife have been guests at Grantham House twice since. Not much else has been happening, although tomorrow her Ladyship plans to visit the art museum._

 _I find myself missing Downton more and more with each passing day. Perhaps it's from not having come here these last couple of years, but I expected to be quite pleased to return to London and yet I have found myself somewhat disenchanted with it all. The city is the same, of course. Perhaps I am just getting on, Mrs. Hughes, and less interested in the lights and bustle. I've a half-day coming tomorrow, and I believe I'll spend it at the British Museum._

 _I must confess that I have a request, Mrs. Hughes. I meant to ask you in my previous letter but thought the better of it. Having reconsidered, I wondered if perhaps I was foolish not to bring it up then._

 _You've mentioned several times that you're still helping out in the laundry. And while I chided you for this before we left, as it is completely beneath your position as housekeeper to do so, I feel myself in the peculiar position of wanting to take advantage of that situation._

 _I happen to have this blanket, you see –_

Her heart flutters, and she almost drops the letter.

– _and it's rather precious to me. It was a gift from a dear friend, and I fear that after several months of nightly use, it could use a bit of cleaning. But, given the delicate nature of the item itself, I have found myself unable to simply add it to my regular laundry when in residence at Downton. I mean this as no reflection on your girls, Mrs. Hughes, but I simply couldn't bear it if anything were to happen to it._

 _However, I do feel that I might be able to entrust it to_ _your_ _care. If you could manage to find the time to see to it, I'd consider it a great personal favour. It can be found tucked safely away in the trunk below the window in my bedroom._

 _I must close this letter for now, as it is almost time for the dinner service. But I am reminded as I glance at my calendar that I'll be phoning you in two days' time, and I look forward it._

 _Until then, Mrs. Hughes,_

 _C. Carson_

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

"Downton Abbey. This is Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, speaking." Her heart flutters; she just _knows_ it's him.

"Mrs. Hughes. It is rather nice to hear your voice instead of just imagining it as I read your letters."

"Mr. Carson," she breathes happily. "I had a suspicion it would be you." She takes the telephone up in her hand and sits a bit further back in his desk chair, rather grateful, indeed, that Mr. Barrow is presently occupied.

"I hope I've not phoned at an inconvenient time."

"No, not at all. Lady Edith and Mr. Branson have just sat down to lunch." She glances at the clock. _As if he didn't know that._

"Are things going well, then?"

She sighs, sparing a sad thought for Mr. Branson. "About as well as I'd expect. And you? How was your trip to the British Museum? Did it restore your faith in London?"

He smiles as he hears the familiar teasing in her voice. "It did, Mrs. Hughes."

"Excellent. I should like to visit it someday, I think."

"You've never been?" He sounds almost horrified. "That surprises me, knowing you."

She's touched that he'd realize how much she would love being surrounded by history for an afternoon.

"No. Perhaps someday."

There's a wistful pause, each considering the unspoken suggestion, the unlikely possibility.

She's the first to recover.

"I'm happy to report that the task you set me to has been successfully completed, Mr. Carson."

"Oh? My, that was quick. Thank you … very much. I knew that I could trust you with that."

"Of course you could," she said softly.

"And it's tucked safely back away?" he enquired further.

"It will be, Mr. Carson. Have no fear." There's a light laugh behind the words, and he realizes he's acting like a child.

"Of course."

They natter on for another few minutes before deciding it's time to hang up and get on with their day. With promises to write soon, and an unnecessary spoken reminder that the time in London is now two-thirds gone, they bid one another farewell.

Mrs. Hughes checks in on her girls and then heads up to the servants' quarters. She opens a few windows in order to let some fresh afternoon air in, and then goes to her own room to fetch a bit of mending.

As she picks up the basket and makes her way past her bed, she reaches down and brushes her fingers over the newly-laundered blanket, closing her eyes and imagining him asleep in his own bed with the stark white and bright blues scrunched up underneath his chin.

She wonders what Mr. Carson would have said had she mentioned that she was keeping it until the night before he returned.

 _He'll know, though, when he returns,_ she tells herself, and she bites down on her lip as she remembers how attentive her butler is … how he picks up minute details that others might miss.

 _He'll know, because it will probably smell like lavender._

* * *

 ** _A wee review would be just lovely. Thanks to all of you who have been taking the time to read this little head canon of mine. x_**


	11. Home

**A/N: This chapter almost didn't happen, but it ended at exactly 1,000 words minus notes and lyrics. Maybe a sign? Thanks to friends for encouragement and to all you lovely reviewers.**

 **xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **I've not always been the best man or friend for you,**_

 _ **But your love remains true.**_

 _ **And I don't know why**_

 _ **You always seem to give me another try.**_

 _ **So I'm going home,**_

 _ **Back to the place where I belong,**_

 _ **And where your love has always been enough for me.**_

* * *

 _ **July, 1921**_

Mrs. Hughes is in the kitchen having a quick cuppa with Mrs. Patmore when she hears his rumbling voice. It's impossible to miss, and the surprise causes her to slosh the tea over the edge of the cup as she sets it down. Her heart pounds its excitement so loudly that she's sure the cook can hear it.

 _He wasn't expected until_ _ **tomorrow!**_

And before she can budge from her spot at the island, there he is before them.

"Mr. Carson! We weren't expecting you today!" She's amazed she could even spit the words out.

"Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, good morning. I'm sorry to have shown up unannounced, but the weather's not been good in London, and they couldn't wait to be back home. It was only decided upon yesterday."

"You must be hungry." Mrs. Patmore is already slicing a piece of last night's tart and placing it before him before he can even answer. "I'm sure you've missed lunch."

"Well, I'll not say no to a slice of _that,"_ he replies, his eyebrows bobbing. "The cook at Grantham House is … well, she's not _you,_ Mrs. Patmore."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Carson!" The cook laughs as she turns to fetch some more tea.

Mrs. Hughes realizes she's been staring at the butler since he walked into the room. She picks up her teacup again and drinks from it to hide her unease, but she can feel his eyes on her.

"I trust everything is going well here, Mrs. Hughes?" His voice is soft, inquisitive but caring, and it soothes her.

"It is, Mr. Carson. We accomplished our cleaning tasks well ahead of schedule, so I allowed the younger staff to travel into town to see a film last evening." She sips the tea again, noting it's gone cold. "That must have been a rush, packing them all a day early."

"Oh, it was no bother. Mr. Bates anticipated it, I think. It may have been a push for Miss O'Brien, but …"

"But you didn't mind _that_ as much, I'm sure," she says quietly, an eyebrow raised. "Good."

He finishes eating and places the plate, cup, and fork in the sink. "I'm going to head up to change, and then I'll need to speak with Mr. Barrow. Where is he?"

"In your pantry, I imagine," the housekeeper replies. "I'll tell him you're here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes." His eyes find hers, locking on them for a moment. She smiles despite her discomfort.

"Of course, Mr. Carson. Welcome home."

She figures he's made it halfway up the stairs by the time she remembers that his blanket is still folded neatly at the foot of her bed.

* * *

Dinner preparations are rather rushed, now, because the family wasn't expected back until tomorrow. But Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, and Ivy manage, albeit not without a few choice words muttered under the cook's breath.

For her part, Mrs. Hughes is overseeing the unpacking, about which Miss O'Brien is decidedly annoyed.

"I can manage, Mrs. Hughes. I'm sure you must be needed elsewhere," she suggests.

"Oh, I'm quite alright, thank you, Miss O'Brien." She carefully folds the tissue as the maid removes yet another frock.

"Well, that's good then. I suppose it was quiet while we were away? Must have been restful."

"Hardly, Miss O'Brien, as you well know. But the house is a great deal cleaner, I'll say that."

She manages five more insufferable minutes – just enough to have reminded Miss O'Brien that _she_ is not in charge of Downton – before heading up to her own bedroom. Double-checking that no one is in the corridor, she fetches the blanket and then unlocks the door to the men's quarters. She walks to the end of the men's side and reaches for the key to open _his_ door, hopefully giving herself enough time to quickly return the blanket and slip away unnoticed.

She makes it inside and reaches the trunk before she hears his footsteps in the corridor; she freezes, her eyes wide and trained on the doorway, and she watches as he comes around the corner slowly.

"Mrs. Hughes?" He glances down to where she's clutching the blanket to her chest in an almost-embrace. "Ah … Did you wish to borrow it?"

"No," she replies, and she adds something he doesn't quite get as he's moving closer to her.

"Sorry?"

She ducks her chin and stares at his waistcoat buttons.

"I'm returning it," she whispers.

"You … You're … Ah," he stammers. "I see."

"So ... I'll just do that ... and then be on my way."

He reaches his hands out and takes the blanket from her, slowly. He's puzzled, as she seems almost reluctant to hand it over, and then he realizes that she's _embarrassed._ It's something he's seen so infrequently since he's known her that he couldn't name it at first.

"Thank you."

He doesn't know what else to say. He wants to thank her for taking good care of it, as though it were a living thing, which he thankfully realizes sounds foolish before it can make it past his lips.

She nods and heads to the door, but he stays rooted to his spot and so her arm brushes against his in order to make it past. He inhales sharply, and she all but runs toward the door.

 _In his_ _ **bedroom!**_ She can't believe she was caught, but thank heaven it was only by Mr. Carson!

Mrs. Hughes turns to say something, but she's stopped by the sight of him: his back to her, hunched over the blanket.

She could tease him, send a cutting jibe his way about his sentimentality, but she doesn't have a leg to stand on and she knows it. After all, the day she'd fetched it from his trunk, she had caught the scent of his soap on the yarn immediately. She'd inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and hugging the blanket tightly to her body … imagining that he wasn't _quite_ so far way.

* * *

 _ **I know it was a short one, but it's a bit of sweetness before some darker times to come as we head out of S3 and into S4 over the next couple of chapters. A review would be lovely if you have a moment. x**_


	12. I Need Your Grace

**A/N: This chapter covers the S3 CS and a bit beyond. It's a series of shots, each separated by a few days.**

 **Thanks to those of you who are reading, reviewing, following, and more. It's very much appreciated.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **I need your grace**_

 _ **To remind me**_

 _ **To find my own …**_

* * *

 _ **September, 1921**_

Mrs. Hughes follows Mr. Carson into his pantry, but she knows she isn't making much headway. He's quite stubborn, and she's not _really_ expecting she'll be able to change his mind … but it's worth a try.

"Oh, go on. _You_ were young once!"

"I'm young _now!"_ But, after seeing her expression, he amends that. "Well, I'm not _old."_

"All the more reason to say yes!"

He adamantly refuses to give in, closing the door behind them and explaining his position. He _knows_ he's right: if he goes, they really _wouldn't_ have any fun. But then he does it again … says the wrong thing, in the wrong way, before thinking about it.

"They respect you, of course, but _I_ am their _leader."_

As soon as the words are out, he regrets them, but there's nothing to be done about it.

"Well," she's saying, "that's put me in my place."

Before she can blink, he stuffs the man back down into the butler once again, because he can't bear to think that he's _hurt_ her with his words. Again.

"Don't envy me, Mrs. Hughes. You know what they say: 'Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.'"

She's not buying any of _that,_ and he knows it. He watches her walk out the door without saying another word, and then sits back in his chair with a deep sigh. He didn't _mean_ to sound insulting, of course, but it's a bit late for that now.

' _I am their leader.' Bloody hell._

He knew he would be a vastly different leader without _her_ by his side.

One of these days, he'll learn how to acknowledge that. To her. Out loud.

 _Perhaps._

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

A moment to herself; Mrs. Hughes can scarcely believe it. She plops down unceremoniously into her desk chair.

 _Well, well, Mrs. Patmore._

The housekeeper isn't convinced that the grocer is all he seems to be on the surface, but bless the cook for being willing to give him a chance. And Mrs. Hughes hasn't lied to her friend … not exactly. There really _is_ only one reason in the housekeeper's mind why a man their age would be so interested in a respectable woman.

 _And if he **does** want a wife …? __Well. That would be something._

She reflects on the situation at hand, hoping desperately that Mrs. Patmore will be able to keep her wits about her. Mrs. Hughes had already decided to accompany her for the fun of getting out of the house, but now she's got an entirely new focus.

Her mouth turns up in a half-hearted smile when she remembers the glow on Mrs. Patmore's face, though, and the concern the woman showed about the blouse being a bit too much. It may be, but Mrs. Hughes believes what she'd said: they so rarely have a chance to shed the uniform for the sake of something more feminine, and it's definitely worth it. If the cook wants to put her best self forward … well, what's the harm?

Mrs. Hughes isn't fooling herself, of course. She's decidedly uncomfortable about the entire situation, and she knows why. It's not Mrs. Patmore's bubbly excitement, nor the effusive letter from Mr. Tufton. It's not the fact that everyone will be at the fair and that she'll have to oversee their behavior, either.

No. Simply put, Mrs. Hughes saw Mrs. Patmore's excitement, read the note, considered the plans that her friend has for the day …

And she is jealous of it all, plain and simple.

She's jealous of the forward tone of the letter, of the chance to be excited about the prospect of being courted. She envies being able to discuss those things with another person, and she's envious of the speculation that she _knows_ was happening in the kitchen after the older women had headed out of it, blouse box in hand.

It won't keep her from wishing the best for her friend, but it's there nonetheless, and she's foolish to try and ignore it.

Reminding herself that she has work to do, she absentmindedly reaches for her pen. Its weight in her hand makes her smile, and it puts a bit of reality back into her mind.

She supposes she _does_ have Mr. Carson, in the strange way in which they have each other. It's not giggling maids or fawning notes or an arm to hold at the fair … but it's something. And if she's sure of anything, it's that she trusts Mr. Carson a far sight better than that Mr. Tufton.

* * *

The door to the library is ajar, and Mr. Carson can't help but stop in his tracks at what he hears. It's the sound of _her_ voice, sometimes like a siren song to him. He so rarely hears it upstairs, as he's often below in his pantry when she's running her maids through their jobs for the day.

And this time is different anyhow. It's not the business voice of Downton's prim housekeeper, not the tone of the stern-but-fair disciplinarian who takes no nonsense from her girls (or, come to think of it, from his footmen ... or even from _him)_. No, this is _his_ Mrs. Hughes that he hears … the softer voice, hesitant in spots, comforting.

He doesn't regret sending her to talk to Mr. Branson at all; he was right to delegate that particular task and he was right about why, knowing he _would_ only have been rude. He's always been in awe of how Mrs. Hughes just took the transformation from _Tom_ to _Mr. Branson_ in stride. He knows she's not the biggest champion of the family, but she has always been quite the cheerleader for their chauffeur-turned-son-in-law.

Her thinking on the subject has always confused Mr. Carson to no end, because all _he_ can see now is a man who is lost within a family that he never deserved to be a part of to begin with … a man who wanted to escape his God-given social status by any means necessary, and who used Lady Sybil in order to do it.

He looks both ways down the corridor, but of course no one is nearby – Mr. Branson is the only one even _here_ until the others return tomorrow. He knows he shouldn't listen in, but the door _is_ open a bit …

" _So I spoiled things for her."_

" _I'm afraid the work would no longer satisfy her. I've seen it before; she'd unsettle the other maids."_

 _Oh, yes,_ Mr. Carson thinks. _We've_ _ **definitely**_ _seen that before._

He hears Mr. Branson speaking again, and double-checks the corridor, missing what the younger man has said.

" … _you know."_

" _Maybe. But if I may say it, you didn't_ _ **dis**_ _courage her, either."_

Mr. Carson's eyebrows flick up in surprise, and they move even higher as he hears Mrs. Hughes agree to give the woman a good reference.

 _And now she's asking to speak as she would have when Mr. Branson was chauffeur!_ He truly _doesn't_ understand her. _She_ _chastises anyone who doesn't recognize Mr. Branson's new, superior position in the household, and yet now she wishes to address him now as though he were still the young man from downstairs!_

But when he hears the words, _her_ words, spoken in that tone that he thinks of in a very secreted-away part of his mind as _mothering,_ he understands. He always forgets that he's not the only one allowed to have favorites upstairs …

" _You let Edna make you ashamed of your new life. But you've done_ _ **well,**_ _and Lady Sybil would be so proud."_

He hears a soft gasp, another … and then wishes with all his being that he'd never chosen to eavesdrop on such a private moment.

" _I can't bear to be without her."_

The man is sobbing now, and Mr. Carson feels the old sadness creep back in. All of a sudden, he feels how desperately _wrong_ he was all these months, how wrong he was to assume that Mr. Branson had motives that were anything less than completely genuine … and he realizes how it took Mrs. Hughes, once again, to show him the way to the real truth of the situation.

" _You must bear it. And one day I hope – and so would_ _ **she –**_ _you'll find someone to bear it with you."_

He can't listen to the rest. He turns briskly on his heel and heads off, never seeing the housekeeper come out of the door moments later and see him disappear through the servants' doorway.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes bites down on her lip – _hard_ – as she stares out into the courtyard. The strong wind mimics the maelstrom she feels in her gut, and she's trying so very, very hard not to break down until she's alone in her bed.

 _Just like that. Another parent in this household dead less than twenty-four hours after the birth of their child._

She's not even sure she understands precisely what happened. She managed to focus on what Mr. Carson was saying, but _he_ was in such a state of shock about it all that she wonders if he skipped something in the explanation.

 _An automobile accident …_

From what she was able to glean from Mr. Carson's speech, Mr. Crawley ran his car off the road. She can't fathom how he was _thrown_ from it, however, and she understands he wasn't bodily struck by any other vehicles. The fact of him having perished from such an accident seems so unlikely to her, and yet there it is.

 _It's Lady Sybil all over again. Gone in the blink of an eye._

She goes back inside and locks the door.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

The next week passes so slowly that she wonders if time is moving at all. She's not sought out Mr. Carson for wine or sherry, and he's not suggested it. He's barely holding himself together, and she can't even chide him for his overbearing nature regarding Lady Mary. After all, she was the same when it was Lady Sybil who had died and Mr. Branson who'd needed a kind word and a soft shoulder. She thinks it may be a mutual understanding between herself and Mr. Carson, their care for those upstairs as well as down, but it's just one more thing about which they don't speak.

They've made it through the funeral, but the shadow of death hangs over the house like the thickest London fog. Chatter in the servants' hall is at a minimum. Anna is beside herself, and Mrs. Hughes knows the maid has been struggling to convince Lady Mary to take an interest in her son after the tragedy of losing her husband. Mrs. Hughes and Anna have discussed this twice in the past few days, and the housekeeper wonders yet again if Lady Mary's attitude is affecting Anna more than most, given the younger woman's desperate wish for a child of her own.

This afternoon, however, Anna tries to bring up the topic of Lady Mary not with Mrs. Hughes, but rather with Mr. Carson. He's having none of it, of course, and he brushes her off with a mumbled comment. He pushes his chair back forcefully, its legs scraping loudly against the floor and startling the room's other occupants.

Mrs. Hughes counts to five, then ten more, before rising and heading down the corridor after him.

 _Locked. He never even_ _ **closes**_ _his door, never mind_ _ **locking**_ _it!_

He can't possibly be hoping to keep _her_ out. He's smarter than that, after all. She selects the correct item from her chatelaine and swiftly opens the door, only to close and lock it once again behind herself.

"Please …" His trembling voice shakes her to her core, much more than observing him for the last week has done.

She looks to where he sits, in _her_ chair by the fireplace, which he's placed so that his back is to the door, and he appears to be staring off aimlessly.

Taking a deep breath, she exits the room again, only to return a moment later with a glass bottle in hand. She keeps it in her desk for what she calls _emergencies,_ and if this isn't an emergency then she doesn't know what is.

He flinches as he hears the click of the lock yet again, but he doesn't turn – not even when she clinks the glasses she finds in his desk.

She pours each of them a healthy measure of the amber liquid, then makes her way to his chair and sits, placing a glass in his hand. She waits until she's sure he has it, and notices that he is still miles away.

"Drink it," she orders, and he complies.

They sit silently for several moments, and she sees a bit of his tension dissipate as he sips at the drink; the fact that he doesn't protest _drinking_ it despite it being only two-thirds of the way through their day is more telling to her than anything else.

She gets up once they've finished and takes his glass and hers, placing them on his desk. Turning back to face him, she is startled to find his eyes no longer trained on the fireplace but on _her_ instead.

"Mr. Carson?"

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She sees his lip tremble, and he clamps his mouth shut tightly, unwilling to let his emotion escape in her presence … _O_ _r, perhaps more accurately,_ she thinks, _at all._

"It's alright," she says. "You don't have to."

But he takes a deep breath.

"I can't do anything to help. Not one bloody thing. I can't … I can't help her. Not this time." It's a raspy whisper, full of grief and anguish and giving up, and it's so _unlike_ him that it shocks her like a slap in the face.

"That's not true," she argues gently, and his eyes flash. "You know it's not."

"I know nothing of the kind." Barely a whisper this time, and then he's looking away from her again.

She sees the shudder of his shoulder – brief, but definitely there.

"You _do,_ " she insists quietly. "You've always been there for that young woman, and she knows you're here now … steadfast and sure the way you _always_ are, and the way you must remain for her. You're her staunchest supporter, and she will need to lean on you."

He turns a bit, stares off into space again; she waits, not willing to move a muscle, afraid to startle him.

"And what if I cannot provide that this time?"

She sees a tear escape his eye, and he wipes at it angrily as she takes the necessary steps to stand directly behind him.

She reaches out and rests her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them tightly, and sighs.

"You can," she says. "You've a great deal of supportive strength within you, Mr. Carson." She smiles sadly, remembering. "I should know," she adds.

"And if it runs out?"

She's never seen him so despondent, and she's never been more grateful than she is right now that it is more her style to barge in through locked doors than to let things go unacknowledged.

She squeezes his shoulders again before patting them and letting her hands rest atop them, still.

Her reply is a whisper, but it's all that's needed.

"Well, Mr. Carson … that's why you have me."

He reaches a hand up to cover one of hers, pats it gently, and nods his thanks. He wishes he could turn, take her hands in both of his, and kiss them gently until the feeling of her skin on his lips takes away his sadness … but he can't.

* * *

 **A review would be lovely, if you have a moment. x**


	13. A Broken Heart

**A/N: Thanks for the heads up from a few of you regarding typos in Ch 12. Sometimes I just don't see them no matter how many times I read through it all.**

 **A bit more angsty and introspective here ... and lyrics from one of my favorite songs ever. Thanks again for all of your fabulous reviews. I love hearing what you all think, and wish I could reply to the guest reviewers personally.**

 **We're officially into S4.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **I know it's hard to keep an open heart**_ _ **  
**_ _ **When even friends seem out to harm you**_ _ **  
**_ _ **But if you could heal a broken heart**_ _ **  
**_ _ **Wouldn't time be out to charm you?**_

* * *

 _ **February, 1922**_

Mr. Carson sits at his desk, and the sound of his fingers drumming on the blotter carries out into the corridor. It's an angry sound, a forceful _thud-thud-thud-thud_ in rapid succession, punctuated here and there by a furious sigh.

He looks at the letter in his hand; he'd gotten it back from her, but he's not sure why he didn't just throw it out again. Maybe it was to save her the trouble of digging through his bin a _second_ time.

Another sigh, this one a bit more forceful, before his eyes scan the words that he's already memorized.

… _should speak … important … old times …_

When he tossed the letter the first time, he wondered what the real reason was for Grigg to have contacted him. He knew it would be something relatively serious for the man to have risked his Lordship's wrath by returning to Downton ... although, then again, Grigg never did have much respect for authority.

 _Damn that man. And in the workhouse now … and **she** went to **see** him!_

He crinkles the letter, allowing his mind to travel back in time; as he does so, the thrumming of his fingers slows. It's been years since he's allowed this train of thought, but he can't stop its arrival now, coming in fast and loud …

He reflects on the early days, on meeting Grigg in a pub. A few shared drinks, some laughs, and a bit of juggling ... that was all it took for them to be fast friends and partners in a new act. Charles Carson had been down on his luck and in need of a friend; within a day, he had made three, for Grigg had introduced him to the Neal sisters the following morning.

Fast-forward two weeks, and Charles and Alice were walking out.

He smiles, remembering. It _had_ been good, in the beginning. He recalls having held her hand the first time, how he'd reached for it shyly … how she'd smiled up at him from underneath her long lashes, squeezing his fingers, encouraging him. He'd given the best performance of his short stage career that night, and he's still thoroughly convinced that he'd been buoyed by Alice's pleasant, caring demeanor and her sweet love for him.

It had taken another month for him to find the courage to kiss her, and he's certain _that_ only happened because he'd sensed she'd been growing a bit impatient with him. He'd always been a responsible person, even as a young lad, and his focus on improving the act had been taking precedence over Alice. But he remembers how their first kiss had changed all that; she'd parted her lips slightly – he'd not expected it, and he doesn't think he'll ever forget how it had terrified him. But she'd been patient and kind with him. By the time their lips had parted, he'd become convinced they'd spend the rest of their lives together.

His fingers start the furious pattern on the desk again, as his happy memories are once again flooded with anguish.

What the butler can't figure out now is why Grigg would _ever_ think that Mr. Carson would want to speak with him. The stealing of the money was forgiven ages ago; after all, he had known going into their partnership that Grigg was somewhat dishonest – the man's reputation for that had preceded his arrival in the pub. But _Alice …_ well, that was a theft that could never, ever be overlooked. She'd stolen young Charles's heart, had bewitched him, and had led him to believe that she was his future.

He's still not sure even now if their relationship had all been just a big ruse. He remembers walking into the room he'd shared with Grigg, having heard some odd shuffling noise but having been unable to discern what it could be, and then seeing them there, her blouse untucked and her hair slightly mussed in the back ... and he remembers the precise feeling in his heart as his world had come crashing down around him.

The thrumming is rapid and _loud_ now, and he turns to see if anyone ( _No,_ he tells himself, _if_ _ **she)**_ is standing out there watching him.

But Mrs. Hughes is nowhere to be seen; she seems to have disappeared entirely from the house, in fact. He's not sure if he's comforted by that thought or not. It's likely safer that way, as he'd just barely escaped their _last_ conversation without hurling harsh words her way.

 _Mrs. Hughes._

He cocks his head as he contemplates her. He has this … something … in his chest whenever he thinks of her. In some ways, he feels as though _she's_ stolen his heart as well, but he doesn't feel the _same_ as he had all those years ago with Alice. It confuses him, makes him hesitant. Every time he thinks he has something about it all figured out, Mrs. Hughes manages to throw a new twist in his path: snooping, pushing her way in, saying too much … or, sometimes, saying nothing whatsoever.

 _So very unlike Alice._

There are times, like after Mr. Crawley died, when Mr. Carson feels that Mrs. Hughes understands him completely, times when he feels she's offering something that maybe, _maybe,_ he might be ready to accept. She cares for him, that much she's made clear, and he appreciates that, and sometimes wishes they could care for each other a bit _more_ than is strictly proper. But then there are times like today, times when she crosses a line that's a bit _too_ personal, and it's _these_ times that throw him all off again.

And it's _not_ the same with her, not at all. When he thinks of the housekeeper, he doesn't have that same schoolboy flutter in his stomach that he remembers having around Alice, and the lack of it is what is holding him back. He can't understand how, if he'd loved Alice so deeply all those years ago, he could possibly even consider that he truly loves another who is so _unlike_ her. He wishes he had more experience in the courting of women, but it's a life he'd determinedly given up after that awful betrayal.

And Alice had never made him angry, not until that last day. She had never pushed or raised her voice, never challenged his point of view or tried to change his mind about the way of things. Alice had been soft and fun-loving. She'd been loud at times and her eyes had overflowed with an abundance of happiness. Life with her had been fun and easy … until that last night. He remembers packing his things in a daze, mumbling something under his breath about not staying around to receive that week's wages, and leaving on the first available train.

He stops the drumming and splays his fingers across the desk. He sees the spots on the back of his hand, the wrinkles that weren't there twenty or even ten years back, and he wonders if he's just been wasting the years of his life, living for a job and a family not his own instead of searching for companionship once again.

 _'Going another way,' she called it. Hm._

Perhaps he's wasting _more_ time turning this all over in his mind.

He'd thought he was over Alice, thought that when his Lordship had sent Grigg on his way years ago that would be the very last he'd hear of the man, and he'd boxed up those reminders and tucked them away for good.

Until now … Because now, Grigg – and Mrs. Hughes – are forcing him to pull it all back into the forefront one more time.

 _It'll be the_ _ **last**_ _time, however,_ he tells himself. _One way or the other._

* * *

Mrs. Hughes picks up her pace. She'd just taken a half-day to visit the workhouse, and now she's off again on a much different, albeit linked, errand. It's unlike her to be repeatedly gone from the Abbey, but she knows it's for the best. She hopes she will be able to convince Mrs. Crawley of the dire need for help, because she obviously did a poor job convincing Mr. Carson of it earlier that afternoon.

 _He'll be **furious** with you,_ she tells herself. It had been bad enough in Mr. Carson's eyes that Mrs. Crawley had assisted Ethel by giving the poor woman a job when she had none, but it would be quite another thing altogether for Mrs. Hughes to _ask_ Mrs. Crawley to help a man known only to the family by a shaky, long-ago, much-regretted-on-the-butler's-part tie to Charles Carson.

 _A shaky tie that you don't really even understand,_ she reminds herself as she approaches the house. She knows there must have been something awful that had happened, but she can't for the life of her figure out just _what_ it might have been.

She smells the smoke from the chimney as she walks nearer to the door and heads around back to the servants' entrance. She's thinking of her conversation with her Ladyship, about how Mrs. Crawley has lost her only child after having already lost her beloved husband. Mrs. Hughes has never had a husband, of course, but she tries to imagine what her life would be like if Joe had died suddenly while they were courting, or if – heaven forbid – Mr. Carson's heart condition were to-

 _Ohhh._ She stops dead in her tracks just steps from the door. _Oh, my heavens. Of course. A_ _ **woman.**_

As she raises her hand to knock on the door, she's positive she's right. Charles Carson, stalwart butler, whose feelings are quite securely hidden away from the world most days, must have fallen out with his friend decades ago over a _woman._

Mrs. Hughes isn't sure how in the world it hadn't occurred to her before.

She contemplates him as she stands waiting at the door, suddenly flushed and warm despite the chill in the air. Yes, she's sure he's had at least a bit of experience courting a woman. Images fly through her mind, visions of his fingers brushing hers, of how he held her so tenderly the evening he'd found her weeping in her parlour, the way in which he looks at her, _teases_ her on occasion despite the fact that teasing is _her_ forte and not his.

The door to Crawley House opens and Mrs. Hughes gasps, startled violently out of her reverie.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Spratt. I wondered if I might speak with Mrs. Crawley for a moment. I'm afraid it's rather important."

The man's eyebrows raise, and the housekeeper nearly laughs at how unintimidating Mr. Spratt looks, particularly in comparison to the butler she keeps close to her heart.

With a deep breath, she follows him down the corridor.

She's grateful that Mrs. Crawley agreed to see her, although she'd not really been afraid of being turned away. And while it seems like a betrayal of Mr. Carson, she's sure that once Mr. Grigg is actually _at_ Crawley House, Mr. Carson will come around. She's aware of having been a bit forward with Mrs. Crawley, having spoken a bit out of turn, but she doesn't think the woman minds terribly much; formality isn't always Mrs. Crawley's strong suit, after all. And, while society clearly prevents them from being friends, the two woman certainly have a mutual respect for one another.

It's only when she's walking back to the Abbey fifteen minutes later that Mrs. Hughes picks up her train of thought from before. She'd never really contemplated Mr. Carson with _any_ woman, let alone one from his days on the stage. Having seen advertisements for shows and the odd film at the cinema, she thinks she has a pretty good idea of what type of woman it might have been, too – someone with a sure sight more experience in the ways of romance than a former farm girl from Argyll.

As she hangs her coat and brushes off her shoes in her parlour, she sighs. She's been wondering what seems to be holding Mr. Carson back, as it's evident that he's at least _somewhat_ interested in … well, _more._

 _But how_ _ **much**_ _more?_

Well, more than a steady working relationship, that much is certain. She wonders if he's thinking ahead to retirement, to not wanting to spend those years alone, to wanting a friendly face by his side as he sits by the fire and reads at night, a woman to prepare his meals and to take walks with to the village on Sundays.

She knows she'll take it, if that's what he's offering. And she chuckles a bit because she knows it'll take an age to even get there, too.

Mrs. Hughes catches her reflection in the looking glass and ponders it as she tucks a stray lock of hair back into its twist. She's not a vain woman, but she can acknowledge that she's attractive – or was, at any rate, not too many years back. But as she examines her appearance a bit more intently, she sees the lines and the weariness that go along with her age, and she wonders what, if anything, she actually hopes to accomplish with the handsome man seated in the room next door.

The only thing she's absolutely sure of is that, if he ever turned his heart over to her for the keeping, she'd do anything in her power to keep it from breaking.

* * *

 **Thanks so much for sticking by this story! It'll be about a week before it updates again, so hang in there. And, in the meantime, a review would be lovely if you feel so inclined. :) xx**


	14. Drifting

**A/N: Mid-way through the Grigg plot here. A series of events (on/off/on screen in canon) over the course of what I imagine is three weeks, give or take.**

 **Reviews welcomed, appreciated, and replied to (unless you're a Guest Reviewer, in which case I'll say THANKS here and encourage you to open an account in order to enable me to reply personally).**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **But I don't want to be your second choice**_

 _ **Don't want to be just your friend …**_

 _ **Look over your shoulder, I'll be there.**_

 _ **You can count on me to stay.**_

* * *

 _ **February – March, 1922**_

Mrs. Hughes sits across from Mr. Carson at his desk, waiting patiently as his mind chews up the information she's boldly, but calmly, tossed his way.

When he finally manages to speak, his words are steady, belying the inner turmoil he's feeling. "Charlie Grigg is going to stay with Mrs. Crawley …"

"The authorities have released him into her charge. I'm collecting him on Friday."

"But why has she _agreed_ to this?"

"Because she's a kind woman - and _he's_ a man in need."

He just stares at her. He's clearly underestimated the housekeeper, who has gone ahead and done this _thing_ and obviously not considered the impropriety of it all.

 _No,_ he amends silently, _she more than likely **has** considered it, but just completely ignored the thought. _

"I cannot believe that you're imposing on her at a time like this, when she's almost broken by grief," he tells her.

She knows he doesn't understand – she can see it in his face. It's in his eyes and in the set of his jaw; she thinks his disbelief might be second to his disappointment in her, however, and she's desperately hoping that once Mr. Grigg arrives, she'll be able to change Mr. Carson's mind about going to see the man.

 _We'll see._

By a small miracle, she manages to keep from rolling her eyes at him now. "It's _because_ of her grief that I'm 'imposing.'"

He shakes his head slowly. "I don't understand you."

And she realizes then that, while he's certainly seen sadness in the past, he truly doesn't know _this_ type of grief – not intimately, anyhow. Not in the way she does.

"No," she sighs, looking away sadly. "You wouldn't."

 _He doesn't know what it's like for Mrs. Crawley._ _The woman has buried her only child and feels as though she's got no proper place left in the world._

Mrs. Hughes may never have lost a child, but she knows what it has been like to lose Becky over the years. Putting her sister away in a home had felt to Mrs. Hughes as though she'd signed her sister's death sentence. The home is fairly nice, despite its lack of structural fanfare, and she's grateful to have found it. But she can barely manage to visit once a year, and even then Becky will sometimes refuse to see her; on her last visit, Becky almost didn't know who she was.

That pain of losing someone, someone who has perhaps not been _her_ child but whom she always treated like more of a daughter than a sister … Yes, this is something Mrs. Hughes understands in a way she will likely never be able to put into words - not for Mr. Carson, nor for anyone else.

She rises from her seat and walks out of his pantry. She must get on with her day, get out of her own head, in order to collect herself mentally so that she can collect Charles Grigg from the train station.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

She smiles when she hears the butler knock lightly on her door. She's been expecting him and asks if he would like to stay for a cup of tea.

"No, I don't think so," he replies, and he moves the door so that it's mostly closed. He hears her chair creak and he hears her footsteps, but he doesn't realize how _close_ she'll be when he turns in his great stride; he notices a faint blush to her cheeks at their physical proximity.

She backs up quickly, wondering what she'd been thinking rushing over to him as she did.

"May we sit for a moment?" he asks, and she nods, motioning to their usual chairs.

He sits back and tents his fingers, and she waits. Clearly something is on his mind, and she tries not to think of the work piled up on her desk that she's currently ignoring.

"I should apologize," he says gruffly.

"Whatever for, Mr. Carson?"

"I … I should never have presumed that you were being unaware or ... uncaring ... of Mrs. Crawley's current … well, condition, I suppose," he stammers.

"But you _don't_ think I should have asked for her assistance."

He turns to look at her, his eyebrows high. "Of course not. She's a member of the family, and Charlie Grigg is … he's … well, he has no business being anywhere near them."

"But he needs help, Mr. Carson. He would have died in that workhouse. As it is, his cough –"

"He's none of my concern."

It's her turn to quirk an eyebrow at him. "Surely you aren't _completely_ incapable of having sympathy for this man. You once shared a stage with him, Mr. Carson. You were friends at one time," she gently chides.

"I don't wish him poorly," the butler admits. "But I don't have it within me to care any more than that. Not anymore."

"Isn't it possible that he's _deserving_ of some kindness? It's been years since you've laid eyes on the man, Mr. Carson. A lot can happen in a few years."

"I understand that. But Mrs. Crawley …" He sighs, shaking his head.

"Mrs. Crawley needs to _do_ something. She shows up here at the house and is denied the chance to visit with Master George – by the _nanny,_ no less. No one in the family seeks her out because they don't know what to say to her - even her Ladyship has said as much directly to me. She has no job, no responsibilities, and no one will call on her because she's in mourning. Mrs. Crawley will only make it through this if she has somewhere to direct her mind."

"And you felt it was your place to offer her that in the form of Grigg."

She's becoming annoyed at his obstinance. "Yes, I did, Mr. Carson. Mrs. Crawley throws herself completely at whatever cause she's working on at any moment, and thank goodness for it! She's arranged for Mr. Grigg to be seen by Dr. Clarkson, has sorted clothing for him, and has a room all ready. She's interested in learning how best to help him, and means to get him employment somewhere so that he can become self-sufficient."

"None of which would be happening if not for you," he remarks.

She's taken aback. "I suppose not; I'd not thought of that, really."

"You did this because you knew _I'd_ refuse to help him."

Mrs. Hughes purses her lips, thinking. "You did make that rather clear, Mr. Carson. But I do admit to hoping you'll change your mind once he's settled more. Don't you think you might visit him at least one time?"

"I will not – I _cannot,_ Mrs. Hughes. It's … It's too much to ask."

She examines him intently, and sees his determination. But, underneath that steel will, she also sees _pain,_ and she knows that whatever happened between the two Charlies, it clearly was not laid to rest all those years ago.

"This has nothing to do with his Lordship sending Mr. Grigg away before the war, does it?"

Mr. Carson shakes his head, but remains silent and trains his eyes on the floor.

Clearly he isn't going to divulge any more information, and she sighs softly.

"I accept your apology," she says quietly. "But it's unnecessary. I knew you wouldn't welcome our plans with any great happiness, that's for sure."

He looks up at her suddenly and sees the smirk.

After a minute, he nods in agreement.

* * *

The butler's fingertips catch hold of the edge of the box, dragging it out of the back of his wardrobe. He meant to open it in the privacy of his bedroom, but time has gotten away from him. He tucks it underneath his arm and heads downstairs.

Hours go by before he manages to have a moment to himself. Lifting the lid off the box, he peers in at its contents: a greeting card, notes …

 _Where is it?_

He doesn't even hear the jingle of her chatelaine as she comes by his pantry.

"What're you doing?"

"Just sorting through some old papers," he replies, distracted. "I haven't looked at these in years."

She's intrigued and peers at the items on the desk. "Why are you looking at them _now?"_

"No particular reason."

She doesn't believe _that_ for a moment – and then:

"Ahhh. I knew I hadn't thrown it away."

She watches as he selects a photograph from the array of items contained within the box. It's been a couple of weeks that Mr. Grigg has been staying with Mrs. Crawley, and Mrs. Hughes feels she and Mr. Carson are finally back to some semblance of normalcy. They've had to band together with Mr. Branson to keep an eye out for any trouble that Edna – or, rather, Miss Braithwaite – might bring to the house. What's more, Mrs. Hughes suspects that something happened recently with Lady Mary … a sorting out of a disagreement she'd had with the butler, which Mrs. Hughes has no doubt had to do with Lady Mary wanting to withdraw completely from her life and Mr. Carson having a distinctly _different_ opinion of how the young woman should deal with her grief.

"Who is she?"

"Oh, just a friend – at one time."

"What was she called?"

"Alice. Alice Neal."

She sees the caring in his eyes, and her heart melts.

"And you were fond of her."

"I was," he replies. "But people drift in and out of your life, don't they?"

The idea of drifting out of _his_ life stabs her like a knife in her chest, but she manages to keep that well-hidden on the inside.

When Mr. Carson looks up at her, he sees only kindness.

 _This is the way we're supposed to be,_ he thinks. _Not bickering and at odds about the family, about Grigg ... but like_ _ **this.**_

"Truth to tell, I thought she'd treated me badly." He's never said the words to another living soul; he hadn't realized that until he voiced them aloud to her.

Mrs. Hughes inhales sharply, knowing he'd just confirmed her suspicions about the falling out with Grigg without even realizing it.

"What does it matter now? We shout and scream and wail and cry, but in the end we must all die."

She looks up as if in contemplation. "Ah. That's cheered me up. Thank you. Now, I'll get on with my work."

He watches as she leaves his pantry, and when she turns and shoots him a knowing smile, he returns it in kind.

As he's packing up the box again, Mr. Carson heaves a contemplative sigh. It's a shout from one of the footmen in the corridor that pulls him out of his reverie and back to the present.

He returns the lid to the box and stuffs it all into his desk drawer, then heads out to see what sort of challenge awaits. A giggle from the kitchen tells him it just might have to do with one of his footmen and one of Mrs. Patmore's maids.

 _Again._

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, folks! One more chapter about Grigg and Alice before we move further ahead. xx**


	15. Butler, Dove, and Nightingale

**"The nightingale, with its evening song, is the bird of love ..."***

 **oOoOoOo**

 ** _Nightingale, sing us a song_**

 ** _Of a love that once belonged …_**

* * *

"Mr. Carson? Shall we … walk back together?"

Mrs. Hughes doesn't even wait for an answer before moving over to the space further from the tracks, and Mr. Carson falls in beside her. They aren't speaking, but the transition is seamless, as if walking side-by-side is something they've done so much that it just _happens._

Dr. Clarkson is a bit taken aback, and his raised eyebrows don't go unnoticed by Mrs. Crawley.

"It used to surprise me, too," she says to him, her voice lighter than it has been in months.

He turns to her, and he sees a smirk playing about her lips.

"What do you mean?"

Mrs. Crawley nods to where Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had been standing, and she moves up to join the doctor as they, too, must leave the platform.

"Them," she says simply.

"But why wouldn't they head back together?"

"No, not that. You seemed surprised to see them … Oh, I'm not sure how to put it. So _attuned_ to one another, perhaps."

"Ah," he nods. "Yes. It's astonishing how they interact sometimes, isn't it? And she truly understands how his mind works, that's for sure. Although even _she_ was surprised to see him today."

Her heels click on the platform as they turn the corner. "Yes, she was. And did you see the look on her face as she watched them speaking? I almost feel as though we've intruded on a very private moment just by our being here. And I realize how odd that sounds, given our professions, how we're both privy to so many secrets."

"Agreed. Although I must say, I'm not surprised by Mr. Carson's kindness, nor by his appearance to see off an old friend. Underneath all that bluster lives a very passionate man, I think. Stubborn, dedicated … but not without feeling."

She turns to face him and smiles. "Why, Doctor Clarkson, I never knew you were so sentimental!"

His laugh is easy and it warms her heart. She wonders if they're finally past the awkwardness from the fair, finally past a stumbled almost-proposal and back to being very good friends once again.

As she climbs into the car, it occurs to her that – save for Cousin Violet – she has precious few friends in Downton. She's happy to count Dr. Clarkson and perhaps (she thinks, but she's fairly certain) Mrs. Hughes among them.

* * *

The weather is cool with a light breeze, and the silent walk is becoming a bit awkward. It's odd, because silences between Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson are usually quite comfortable. He clears his throat; she waits, but no words appear to be forthcoming.

They take several more steps and find themselves upon the part of the road where the trees are denser on either side, where the noise and bustle near the station has disappeared and the homes, too, are fewer and farther between.

He chances a sideways glance and his breath catches as he looks at her fair skin, her concerned countenance, and the way her hat rests upon her hair. He's struck by how much she comforts him, how just the sight of her makes him calmer, makes him feel like he's _home._

It's a shock to realize it again, especially now. He knows he's been a bit crabby lately, and he could easily blame Grigg and the dredged-up memories of Alice for it, but they're a poor excuse. At the end of the day, Mrs. Hughes had stepped in and done a wonderful thing for a man she only knows through Mr. Carson _,_ and he had to force himself just to show up at the station. It was a slap of reality, and he readily admits that it's brought him down a peg. He only hopes her opinion of him hasn't been lowered, that he's not lost her favor. He knows it's taking a dog's age for him to just come out and address the issue: he wants to _court_ his housekeeper, plain and simple ... he just has absolutely no idea of how to go about _doing_ it.

She looks over and catches him out, and he gives her a sheepish smirk.

"Mr. Carson?" She's puzzled, having caught him openly staring at her but giving no reason as to why.

"It's nothing."

 _It's the_ _ **opposite**_ _of nothing,_ he thinks, _but I can't possibly say that!_

"I don't believe _that,"_ she chides him quietly. "But it's fine if you'd rather not discuss it."

They walk a bit further and he sees a bench; he motions for her to sit, and she smiles gratefully and does just that.

"I don't mind taking a short rest," she admits aloud. "We're not needed back for another hour."

He hums, lost in thought for a moment.

She gives him time, knowing he's mulling something over and that it's perturbing him that he cannot make enough sense of his thoughts to speak them aloud.

"I almost didn't come today."

"Why did you?" She clasps her hands in her lap, examining her gloves.

"Because of you," he admits.

"Me? Surely not!"

"No, it's true. You made me feel guilty about not seeing him – and that's not a complaint," he explains, his hand raised as if in defense. "I am grateful to you, Mrs. Hughes. Very grateful."

"I don't think I'm responsible for anything, not really."

"You wouldn't leave it alone," he says gently, resting his hands on his knees.

Her eyes fall on the backs of his hands, on the veins and spots and the _strength_ in them. They're one of her favorite things about him, and she has to force herself to look away before she flushes, imagining his hands holding her tightly in his embrace again.

She reaches to adjust her skirt, and he feels her elbow brush his. It is a shock to his senses, reminding him that not only is she caring and understanding, but she's also _real_ and _warm_ and - most importantly - _here._

And that he truly loves her so very, very much.

Hazarding a turn of the head, he finds her eyes trained on her own hands, which are now clenched tightly in her lap. He'd like to reach for one, to slide her glove off and feel her hand in his, to see if the skin of her fingertips is as soft as he remembers. But he cannot quite bring himself to break the tension; they now both feel it acutely.

She's the first to give in.

"Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you came today," she tells him softly. "I'd guess you needed that ... to have some closure."

"I did. One day, I'll tell you the whole story."

Her smile is sweet, and he's reminded once again of the comparison between Mrs. Hughes and Alice. Both sweet and kind but also fierce and passionate at times. It hadn't been a good combination with Alice, in the end. Something tells him it could be better with Mrs. Hughes. It _is_ already better with her. They're not really walking out, they have no actual understanding, and yet they are each other's best supporter, spending all of their days side by side.

"I think we should be getting on," Mrs. Hughes tells him after a bit, looking out at the sinking sun.

"I suppose you're right." He's clearly reluctant, and she doesn't fail to notice it.

They rise from the bench and she brushes the wrinkles from her skirt. She doesn't even see the stone in her pathway as she's walking, and her thoughts about his seeming desire to stay and talk with her have her so distracted that she trips on it and stumbles sideways, her arms flailing in a desperate attempt to break her fall.

But she never makes it to the ground because his arms are there instantly, catching her; one hand ends up clasping hers while the other lands on her waist, preventing her from falling any further.

"Oh!" she utters, flushed. She turns her head and sees the offending stone, which he also notices and then promptly kicks to the side of the road.

"You must be more careful, Mrs. Hughes," he mumbles, his mouth dangerously close to her temple, and she hears the teasing tone.

"Yes, I clearly need to pay more attention to where my feet are heading." Her tone is forced, and he is examining her flushed cheeks when they both notice that he's still got hold of one of her hands. "I think I'm a bit steadier now; thank you, Mr. Carson."

"You're welcome," he manages, letting go; they both feel the loss painfully, but they are simply too close to the Abbey to keep holding hands.

 _Besides,_ he thinks. _Today is probably not the best day for **that.** Best to give it a bit more time._

She looks back up at him and smiles brightly, wishing there might be another stone for her to stumble upon so that she could experience the feeling of his hand at her waist once again.

 _Someday,_ she promises herself.

They spend the rest of the walk back in silence. Mrs. Hughes accepts that he's almost past this entire situation with Grigg, but takes it upon herself to be absolutely sure. She's not really gotten confirmation from him that this Alice was at the middle of it, but she just can't fathom any other scenario.

She formulates a plan before they reach the servants' door. She runs the risk of facing his wrath once he realizes she's dug through his belongings ( _A second time,_ she reminds herself), but – once again – she feels the risk might be worth the reward.

* * *

 _'So much I could taste it.'_

He examines the frame again, admires the shine, the weight of it in his hand, and how perfectly Alice's photograph fits inside the opening, how the silver only highlights the image. His dove ...

' _It changes you from where I'm looking.'_

The irony of it all is outstanding. Mrs. Hughes is right, of course – the knowledge that Alice wished she'd chosen him _does_ change him. But instead of making him regret it all, it only serves to make him happier than he has any right to be. It reminds him that he is capable of being loved, that he may even be _deserving_ of the love of a kind woman, that his value may not be just in the position he holds in a powerful household.

The photograph, framed, is the final closure. The days it has spent on his desk, reminding not only the staff but also _him_ that he has a heart, have proven invaluable. And he wonders if that was her plan all along, if pulling his capacity for loving out of him slowly by reminding him that he once had it was _her_ way of seeing that the awful, gaping hole in his heart truly would be stitched up and allowed to heal.

 _It's worked,_ he tells himself.

And he takes the photograph, folds back the little stand, and tucks it in the back of his desk. For all the days it's rested on the desktop, reminding him of the love he once had, it has also been a constant question … asking him why the woman he loves _now_ isn't the one whose picture rests in the frame.

He thinks that, perhaps, despite all her lack of sharing her own feelings regarding their slowly-blossoming affection for one another, Mrs. Hughes is really the one who's been in charge of things from the moment she caught him singing.

The thought makes him chuckle as he closes the drawer, aware as he's doing so that he's closing the door on the Alice chapter of his life in order to make room for the _rest_ of his life to be written.

 _And it will be,_ he promises himself. Whether it be over a hundred glasses of sherry or brushes of the hand, of heated disagreements and the occasional slamming of office doors … or of notes reminding the other to take care of details, of the stitching of a loosened livery button, or the warm companionship as they sit side-by-side in church …

 _It will be._

* * *

 ***From exemplore dot com**

 **I'd love a wee review if you're so inclined. xx**


	16. Never Far Away

**A/N: Thank you to all of you who are hanging on. I can promise things will be happening soon, but this is a bit of a non-action chapter.**

 **This is not a great part of canon. Ep 4.3, 4.4, etc ... not pretty. There's also another one year gap just prior to the CS for S4. I may just skip that and get to the good stuff.**

 **Many thanks to Hogwarts Duo and meetmeinstlouie for listening to me complain about how these 1,500 words kicked my arse. You guys are awesome.**

 **Much love xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **I promised I would never leave you**_

 _ **And you should always know**_

 _ **Wherever you may go**_

 _ **No matter where you are**_

 _ **I never will be far away ...**_

* * *

 _ **July 1922**_

Mr. Carson isn't quite sure what's going on with Mrs. Hughes, but she's most certainly not been herself lately. She's been a bit forgetful, somewhat snippier with Mr. Barrow, and she seems to have an unhealthy preoccupation with Anna Bates.

 _Well,_ he amends silently, _not unhealthy. Perhaps … motherly._

It's not unusual in and of itself, but he's also fairly certain that the housekeeper isn't sleeping well, either. Altogether, it paints an uneasy picture.

As he moves throughout his days, he ponders it all. He thinks back on her distracted manner at breakfast only that morning. He wonders how many mornings she's been up well before dawn; he knows it's been at least one because he ran into her in the kitchen when he was up early last week and went to fetch a cup of tea. As he's polishing the silver, its gleam reminds him that the light has dimmed somewhat in her eyes, a sure sign of not only her fatigue but also some kind of overwhelming sadness. He's not seen that since they lost Lady Sybil, and even then he's not sure it lasted as long. As the wine is decanting, part of his mind remembers Mrs. Hughes's difficulty in maintaining a conversation over last night's sherry. While it's sometimes their way to sit quietly and offer up little in the way of chatter, she was clearly somewhere else in her mind and not really present with him at all.

And so he forges ahead: house party, Mr. Molesley, James and his attitude, and more ...

 _It's definitely to do with Anna,_ he decides one day, replacing the candlesticks on the shelf. _And perhaps Mr. Bates …_ He's caught Mrs. Hughes speaking in hushed tones with _him_ more than once.

It takes about two weeks for Mr. Carson to realize that this all seems to have started the night of the house party. It was the night that Anna had fallen. Perhaps she'd hurt herself worse than she'd led everyone to believe.

 _But … no._ It makes no sense to him, because even an injury like that wouldn't bother Mrs. Hughes so very much.

 _No … It's more like she has some awful secret weighing upon her. Again._

He remembers telling her that she doesn't have to hold those secrets by herself anymore, that she can lean on him if she needs to. She's never been particularly _good_ at doing that, but there are some times when he thinks she's tried. Granted, she kept the story of Miss Braithwaite from him … although that was probably not a bad idea - even he can acknowledge that much now that she's shared it with him. And the party for Lord and Lady Grantham was also a secret, but she _had_ been asked by Lady Rose to keep that to herself. That train of thought brings him back to the band for the night, and he makes his mind shift gears quickly.

 _That house party …_

He's sitting at his desk now, tapping his pen uncharacteristically on his blotter, his eyes staring off as he sends his mind back to those days of preparation and the memorable performance. The house had been such a beehive of activity with the extra staff, the new personalities. And then, not long after-

' _Is his valet with him? I mean, is he staying? She'll want to know.'_

He'd been so puzzled by the question, by the _way_ in which Anna had asked it. But now he recalls not the words, but rather the look on her _face._ If he had to put a name to it, he thinks he might say _terrified._

 _ **Terrified.**_ _But why would she have been afraid of Lord Gillingham?_

He flashes back to the night of the concert again, to when Anna had supposedly fallen. He's wondering if perhaps something else happened, something that Mrs. Hughes knows about and is - for whatever reason - keeping secret.

He stops the tapping of the pen and finds himself clutching it tightly.

 _Wait …_

He remembers now. Anna had left the concert. And while he doesn't remember Mr. Green having _left_ the concert, he most certainly remembers the man _returning_ near the end of it.

 _Where did_ _ **he**_ _go?_

Mr. Carson knows Anna well enough by now to know that she'd never have met secretly with the man. It had to have been a coincidence.

 _Unless …_

He shakes his head; he can barely stand to even _consider_ the horrid thought that just flew through his mind. Bringing his thoughts back to Mrs. Hughes, he tries to divine a way that he may help her without actually _seeming_ to help her at all.

* * *

The upcoming church bazaar is a blessedly wonderful distraction, as far as Mrs. Hughes is concerned. She's sorting last-minute details with Mrs. Patmore when she hears Mr. Carson's footsteps in the corridor. She feels herself perk up a bit at the thought that he might join them, but he just walks on past the doorway without so much as slowing down. In fact, she thinks he sounds as though he's almost _rushing_ past the kitchen.

She sighs faintly, hoping it will go unnoticed by the cook.

Mrs. Hughes knows she's been struggling lately to keep up with everything. She's still worried about Anna, despite the fact that Anna and Mr. Bates seem to be in a better place. Mr. Carson's anger and shock around the anniversary concert was a bit hard for her to handle, but she thinks they're past it. In fact, she wonders if her sneaking Mr. Molesley back into a household staff position was overstepping her boundaries just a bit.

No matter. They're somewhat back to normal now, and if she can pull herself out of this worrisome fog she seems to be in all the time, perhaps she can manage to enjoy the precious time she gets to spend alone in the butler's company at the end of every day.

But she can't - not quite.

 _Because of Anna._

Because Anna _seems_ better, but Mrs. Hughes knows that she's not. She knows that, deep down, Anna is still afraid. That she wakes up with a hideous fear every morning, and that she brings that fear to bed with her every night. She knows that Anna is still afraid she's been ruined, that she's not good enough for her husband anymore.

 _Thank God she's not pregnant._

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She looks up suddenly with a gasp.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Patmore. I don't know what's gotten into me lately."

The cook purses her lips and raises an eyebrow. "I see. Well, something surely has, but whatever it is, this bazaar isn't going to pull itself off!"

 **oOoOoOoOo**

She walks to her sitting room and stops short just inside the door … and her jaw drops.

The vase on her desk is modest, but the blooms pouring out of it are anything but. They're most definitely _not_ the flowers that had rested there only an hour before, with petals that had long gone, buds that needed to be pulled out and thrown away. No, these blooms are full, fresh, and fragrant. White roses and lily of the valley, interspersed with blue forget-me-nots and fresh greenery.

She bends to smell a perfect, white rosebud, and that's when she notices the envelope tucked underneath the vase. It's well hidden, and she turns to see if he might be standing in the doorway, waiting for her to find it.

If there's one thing she _knows,_ it's that the note is most definitely from Mr. Carson.

As she lifts the flap, Mrs. Hughes is aware that she's smiling broadly. She slips the folded note out and reads it, her smile faltering a bit despite the caring clearly evident in the few words on the page.

 _You still don't have to do it alone._

She lifts her fingers to her lips to keep in the cry that wants to escape; she cannot let that happen, because it would be heard throughout the downstairs - she's sure of it.

The shuffle from behind her distracts Mrs. Hughes and she turns around, fingertips still pressing into her lips.

He's there _now,_ even though his sturdy presence was absent just a moment ago.

"Mr. Carson," she whispers tearfully.

He strides toward her, not even caring what someone might think should they be seen. He reaches out and squeezes her hand briefly.

"Do you mean it?" she whispers.

"I do," he says significantly. "And someday, I hope you'll tell me the whole story. Of what's been eating away at you so ferociously."

Her eyes fly up to meet his, her gaze watery. The echo of past conversations is loud in her head - the whole story of Alice, the whole story of Edna Braithwaite and Mr. Branson.

But _those_ stories could be told, could be told and set aside because they were _done._

 _But not this one._

"Perhaps one day I will, Mr. Carson." It's a whisper, faint, but it reaches out and touches his heart nonetheless.

"Maybe I already know."

She acknowledges it with a brief nod.

"Perhaps. Regardless, I thank you. For this." She lifts the note, and he sees the hint of a smile playing about her mouth.

He stands a bit straighter, tugging on his waistcoat.

"I should get back," he mumbles. He wants to draw her into his embrace again, to know once again what it feels like to simply _hold_ her … but obviously he cannot.

 _Yet._

* * *

 _ **A wee review would be lovely. xx**_


	17. Liberation

**A/N: Thanks for your kind reviews of the last chapter. I love that many of you enjoyed it, some saying it was your favorite, when it was the one about which *I* was most unsure.**

 **I like this one, though, and hope you will, too. Drop me a note after reading, if you would, and let me know. And to the fab guest reviewers - I do love hearing your thoughts as well, even though I cannot respond in person.**

 **xx,  
CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Loving someone liberates the lover as well as the beloved.**_

 _ **And that kind of love comes with age.**_

 _ **~Maya Angelou**_

 _ **Fall - Winter, 1922-1923**_

Mr. Carson watches from his premier vantage point as Lord Gillingham approaches Lady Mary. The church bazaar is in full swing, and not many others seem to have noticed the secretive nature of the pair. Their conversation is hushed, frenzied, and Lady Mary appears well and truly shocked. They don't appear to be terribly _saddened_ by the news they're discussing, but it's clearly not pleasant, either.

The butler then hazards a glance across the field to where Mrs. Hughes is working. When he was watching _her_ just a moment beforehand - an activity which seems to have taken over the majority of his supervisory time today - she'd been deep in conversation with one of the villagers attending the bazaar; now, however, her eyes are trained on Lord Gillingham as well. And, as Lord Gillingham leaves, Mr. Carson observes Mrs. Hughes turning her attention to Lady Mary who, he sees as he watches in horror, is conveying some bit of information to _Anna._

He steps back inside the house to fetch some fresh glasses, a job that he would have tasked to James had he not needed a few moments to think. His brow is furrowed as he processes what he's just witnessed - new information, which serves only to confirm his very worst suspicions. He is mildly sickened as he comes to his final conclusion … for, with all of the unpleasantness on Lady Mary's face as she gathered news from Lord Gillingham, the butler saw nothing but _relief_ on Anna's.

He steps back outside and feels the housekeeper's eyes on him immediately. He lifts the silver tray on his fingertips and takes the long route to his destination, meeting up with her along the way. A quick assessment of her features tells him that she, too, has felt some kind of relief from the news that Lord Gillingham has presented today.

"Are you alright?" he murmurs, low enough that only she can hear.

She gives him a smile, one which doesn't quite reach her eyes, and a nod.

 _It isn't much,_ he thinks. _But it is enough._

* * *

The summer turns to autumn almost before they can catch their breath, and then the Christmas week has gone by and a brutal winter has rolled in. The corridors are cold as the wind and snow whip around outdoors, and walks to and from town are limited to trips to church or errands of dire necessity.

Mr. Carson is glad of his blanket on these long, cold nights, when even the crackling of the fire in his bedroom hearth isn't quite enough to keep him warm. It makes him wonder how Mrs. Hughes is faring, and he determines to ask her one of these days … provided that he can find a way to bring it up without it seeming inappropriate.

He finds his chance one late afternoon as he's making rounds through the family's quarters. He's not often upstairs during the daytime, preferring to leave those areas to Mrs. Hughes's supervision, but with the family away at the Dower House to look in on the Dowager, the day has been rather slow, indeed. He gazes out the windows as he passes by them, noting the sunlight glinting off of the newly-fallen snow, appreciative of the lovely view and the blessedly mild day given what they've experienced as of late.

He's contemplating looking in on the children - on Miss Sybbie, specifically, because he now can admit (if only to himself) that she's become quite dear to him - but as he crests the staircase, he hears a whisper of music. Intrigued, he rounds the corner of the doorway, and his stern-but-curious expression crumples into one of unabashed love.

The look does not go unnoticed by Mrs. Hughes, who - much to her credit - nods and returns his smile even while finishing out the verse of the lullaby.

"Well, Miss Sybbie, Master George … I believe we've been caught out."

Her voice is soft, melodic, and the butler finds himself bewitched.

He sees a twinkle in her eye, and then there's a coo and then a whimper from Master George. Mr. Carson watches as the boy nuzzles into Mrs. Hughes's chest, but realization of what it is, exactly, that the lad seeks makes him avert his eyes.

The housekeeper readjusts Master George's position in her arms and offers him her knuckle to suckle on instead. It seems to quiet him, and his soft gurgling echoes across the nursery. Miss Sybbie, on the other hand, is wholly fascinated by the butler, whose tall and broad frame appears gigantic to her from her current vantage point of the nursery floor.

"And why, pray tell, are you not using the chair, Mrs. Hughes? And where's Nanny?"

"That chair is positively horrid - I don't know how Nanny stands it, when this bed is clearly more comfortable." She lovingly runs her hand over Master George's fair hair. "As for Nanny's whereabouts, this little one has been ill the past two days, and that patient woman has been virtually run off her feet. I've sent her out for an hour to have a quiet cuppa in my sitting room. I wouldn't be surprised if she's fallen asleep, the poor thing."

He tilts his head, contemplating her. "You're a kind woman, Mrs. Hughes. Do you know that?"

She only shakes her head, and then she pats the bed beside her. "Come and join us, Mr. Carson? I think this wee one is almost asleep."

The wind howls just then, and he nods, biting back an inappropriate comment that made it to the tip of his tongue, something about being in a bed beside her. As he moves a cushion from the chair to the headboard, beside where she's sitting, he asks the question that's been on his mind for days.

"How are you faring with the cold? It's been frigid in the attics this week."

She flushes under his gaze, thinking that she'd be faring a bit better if she were tucked into a bed in a cottage and not into her drafty attic room.

"Fairly well, thank you. Mrs. Patmore makes sure an extra brick is sent up for my bed, and I've a rather large afghan that was my mother's." Her eyes widen a bit at the look on his face when she utters the word _afghan,_ but he says nothing as he lowers himself slowly onto the mattress, careful not to disturb Master George.

Before he can ask what the song was that Mrs. Hughes was singing to them, Miss Sybbie clambers across the floor, up onto the bed and straight to his lap, placing her thumb in her mouth and snuggling herself underneath his arm.

"Well, look at that," Mrs. Hughes remarks, smiling. "It appears as though you've got a friend, Mr. Carson."

He shifts Miss Sybbie's body slightly so that she is lying across his chest, with her head now resting on his shoulder as her eyes are growing heavy.

"Oh, yes, we're old friends, aren't we, Miss Sybbie? There, there," he says softly as he rocks his torso slightly while patting the young girl's back.

They sit silently for several moments, and Mr. Carson divides his attention between Miss Sybbie, who grows much heavier as she falls asleep, and Mrs. Hughes, from whom he is not even attempting to hide his sideways glances.

"Did you care for children when you were growing up, Mrs. Hughes? It occurs to me now that I know very little of your life prior to your arrival here ... of your family." And then he adds with a smirk, "Aside from the fact that you had a sweet aunt and uncle, of course."

"Of course."

She draws her lip underneath her teeth as she contemplates _how,_ precisely, to answer his question; while she wouldn't lie outright to him, she's got neither the time nor the energy to fully explain her experience in child-rearing. _Besides,_ she tells herself, _he means_ _ **average**_ _children._ _Not like Becky._

"Our village was fairly busy when I was growing up," she says. "There were a great many children, and everyone watched out for one another. I was the eldest, and so I was often looking after one or two, or helping the schoolmistress when she needed an extra set of hands."

"Ah," he replies thoughtfully. "I see. You've a natural way with them. I was curious."

"Because I'm not a mother," she blurts out.

He's a bit taken aback by that, sensing some hint of hurt beneath the words. "No," he says firmly. "It's nothing to do with that. But you arrived here after the girls were babies, and so I always wondered."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson, that was rude of me. You were only being polite."

"I was prying a bit," he points out. "I apologize if it made you uncomfortable."

"Don't worry; it didn't."

She moves to place a gentle kiss to Master George's brow. "He's cooler now," she remarks. "That's a very good thing."

But Mr. Carson isn't finished, and even Master George's improved condition can't manage to distract the man from his train of thought. "I find myself more curious about you as the months go on, Mrs. Hughes. If it _becomes_ bothersome-"

"It won't," she replies swiftly, effectively cutting him off. "I mean, we're friends, Mr. Carson. _Good_ friends." She looks up at him from underneath her lashes. "I think?"

He moves his hand hesitantly toward hers, which is resting on the bed between them in the small space not currently occupied by sleeping children or livery or crinoline skirts. She turns her hand palm side up, and he covers her soft fingers with his own, smiling when he realizes that his hand completely engulfs hers.

"I do hope so," he whispers, squeezing her fingers.

She squeezes back and stares at their hands, quiet for a moment, and then the silence is broken by the sound of a sigh from somewhere in the corridor. Mrs. Hughes rips her hand out of Mr. Carson's and bounds up off of the bed with an agility and speed that astounds him. Before Nanny is even near the doorway, Mrs. Hughes has already smartly pulled the counterpane to straighten it and moved the pillow back to its normal position, so that it looks as though she were never even seated upon the bed at all.

"Mrs. Hughes, thank you," Nanny is saying as she turns into the nursery. "Oh, Mr. Carson!"

"Good afternoon," he says quietly, indicating the sleeping lass in his arms.

"I shouldn't be surprised to see _you_ here," Nanny says quietly to him. "I'm glad you've finally made yourself comfortable."

"Yes, well …" he mumbles, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks. "That chair in the corner …"

"Oh, it's awful," Nanny whispers conspiratorially, "but I've not got the heart to ask them to swap it out. When no one is about, I just pile up onto the bed with the children."

"An excellent idea," Mrs. Hughes adds, with a twinkle in her eye that only Mr. Carson can see. She hands Master George over to Nanny's waiting arms. "He's out for good for the moment. And the fever's gone."

"Thank God," Nanny murmurs. "And thank _you._ I feel like a new person, honestly. I appreciate it."

Mrs. Hughes nods and then moves over to remove Miss Sybbie from the butler's arms. As her eyes meet his over the sleeping child's head, he sees a tenderness in them that he isn't sure he's _ever_ seen before. She raises an eyebrow, and he realizes he's not yet begun to move Miss Sybbie, which he now does slowly so as not to wake her.

Mrs. Hughes can't help brushing her arms against his as they transfer the child from his embrace to her own, and it feels wonderful. She thinks fleetingly that they're almost like grandparents, and the thought brings a pang to her chest, but it disappears quickly when she looks at him once more and sees nothing but affection on his face.

The housekeeper places Miss Sybbie in her bed and turns swiftly back to Mr. Carson as he's swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Before she can stop herself, she's extending her hand to help him up.

 _The bed_ _ **is**_ _rather softer than a chair,_ she reasons, _and much harder to rise from_. _It's as good an excuse as any._

"Thank you," he murmurs, taking her hand and managing to get himself up off the bed. He lets go of her fingers and straightens his livery, and then goes to place a kiss to Miss Sybbie's head before making his way to the door and opening it, holding it steady so that Mrs. Hughes might pass through.

They walk down the gallery side-by-side, a bit closer than usual. Neither of them comments on it, but each realizes that something significant has happened in that nursery. It's as though they're making their way toward one another on some long, invisible bridge, where a curious question, a caring glance, and the holding of hands have, together, served to push the butler and the housekeeper ever closer toward one another, toward a sense of liberation.

She hopes she can manage to _fully_ bridge that divide before long; as she steals a sideways glance and finds him once again staring at her, she realizes that perhaps she's not the only one who longs for it.


	18. Responsibilities

**A/N: Unbeta'd.**

 **Thanks so much to you all. This next chapter will be familiar to the tumblr followers from a post on dameofdownstairs's last birthday, but I have changed it up a bit.**

 **For the guest reviewers to whom I wasn't able to reply last time ...**

 **1\. Yes, a smokin' hot butler is always amazing, and I promise one housekeeper tucked into bed with him before the end of this fic.**

 **2\. Yes, a kiss is coming somewhat soon, and mosdef sooner than in canon.**

 **3\. To the guest who was moved by the opening song choice, kudos on identifying it AND I'm right there with you. xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **And when you're needing your space**_

 _ **To do some navigating**_

 _ **I'll be here patiently waiting**_

 _ **To see what you find ...**_

* * *

 _ **1923 - London Season, about six months later**_

The day has been ridiculously busy … planning, executing, cleaning. Grantham House is always full of bustle, and Mrs. Hughes is still trying to get her bearings in the place on top of everything else. It is certainly smaller than the Abbey, but Mrs. Bute has her own system of organization that Mrs. Hughes sees as being more convoluted than what the woman really needs, and it's not helping.

 _Perhaps it is the her way of aspiring to a greater responsibility, showing that she is capable of more than just running this small house. Who knows?_

One thing is certain: several days' worth of parties and entertaining and planning have not helped Mrs. Hughes to feel like she's settled in yet.

Still, Mr. Carson has told her he's more comfortable at the helm when _she_ is the one there to support him, and that alone makes her happy. He was glad to see her when she arrived, and she can't possibly express how elated she was to have been summoned to join him _(No - the family,_ she reminds herself. _Not him …)_ for the Season.

It does, however, mean there'll be no trip to visit with her sister this year, but Mrs. Hughes is willing to make the sacrifice. This is a significant shift in her priorities, and once again she's fighting the feeling that she's playing the part of the schoolgirl, putting a beau before her responsibilities. The problem, however, is that the butler _is,_ in a way, part of her responsibilities … he's so intricately tied to her job that she can't imagine being housekeeper at Downton without him. She's not sure she could function if he were ever to leave; certainly she'd not be the same woman without him, and she does feel a responsibility to keep him at an even keel whenever possible. It's something she's been seriously turning over in her mind since the evening they'd spent with Miss Sybbie and Master George; now that she's had a taste of what a more domestic life could be _with_ Mr. Carson, she's willing to sacrifice anything she needs to in order to never have to live _without_ him.

Including her almost-annual trip to see Becky.

Mrs. Hughes did manage to phone the facility and speak with her sister, catching Becky on a very good day. She smiles now as she remembers Becky's excitement about the woman who'd visited the residents with her puppy last week, and how proud her sister sounded at having been able to pat it.

" _Gentle, Ellie. I was very gentle with the puppy."_

" _That's wonderful, my lass. I'm so proud of you."_

" _I'll make you a picture, alright?"_

" _I would love one, Becky. I can add it to my collection."_

" _I love you, Ellie."_

" _I love you right back, my darling."_

She sighs as she makes her way downstairs one more time, knowing that it'll be a month before she hears Becky's voice again and wondering if, that next time, Becky will ask why her big sister isn't coming for a visit. Or perhaps Becky won't ask, or won't remember her name again, which would be even worse.

The hour is late, and the thoughts running through Mrs. Hughes's mind are starting to become nonsensical given her level of fatigue. She just needs to check on Mr. Carson, to see him and reassure herself that he's taking care not to become overworked, overstressed, and overtired - any of those things that, she remembers with no small amount of fear, would be taxing on his heart and his overall health - and then she'll head on up to bed.

She's missed him today, and painfully. She's been moving through the corridors expecting to come into contact with him … a brush of the hand, a bump of the arm, the touches that always give her the little bit of connection that she craves, the physical reminder that there is something blossoming between them. But those things haven't happened; she barely even saw him as the day moved forward and passed into night and then morning again.

Until now. Now, she sees him asleep in the chair.

 _Again. This is the third time this week._

Her heart wants to burst right out of her chest, and she knows now that for all her uncertainty about priorities and falling behind in responsibility, she'll never tire of this, of the way in which he makes her feel sixteen instead of sixty, of the hope it plants in her heart that the best years of her life just may be ahead of her and not behind. It was once frightening, sometimes it still is, but the word coming to mind now is _exhilarating._

Watching him as he breathes deeply, as he tries to balance the teacup and saucer with his fingers even as he slumbers, she smiles. His hands are so steady, even in his sleep, that not once does she worry the tea will splash to the floor.

She examines the smoothed-out features of his face, the relaxed pose that he rarely exhibits when awake. Her eyes travel to his forehead, then down his aquiline nose; her examination pauses at his mouth before moving back down to his large, strong fingers and hands that still manage to treat the delicate china they hold with the utmost care. She's felt his fingers grace her hand with the same soft, gentle touch.

Before she knows it, she's moving toward him, and she feels a soft smile upon her face. She reaches out and brushes the backs of her fingers ever-so-lightly over his cheek, the heat from his skin feeling like home to her hand. His breathing staggers a bit, and she sees him grasp the cup more tightly.

She takes a chance and combs the wayward curl - _Oh, Elsie, how many times have you longed to do this?_ \- from his forehead with her fingertips, marveling at the soft feel of his hair beneath her fingers. It's an unexpected sensation given the amount of pomade he utilizes to keep his locks tamed into the butler's flawless style.

His eyes open then; she almost jumps back, but doesn't. Instead, she meets his gaze, and her smile falters a bit until she sees the one that breaks out on his own lips. Gradually, she removes her fingers from his forehead, quickly replacing the mental image she has of him seated on a settee in a small cottage with the true picture of his present surroundings.

"It's late," he says, his voice even deeper than usual because of his sleepiness, and she chuckles softly and nods.

"Aye, that it is. I hope this isn't _all_ the sleep you'll be getting tonight, Mr. Carson. You can't make a habit of this. 'Going without' is going to catch up to you."

"They won't be up until late in the morning, so I'll be alright," he assures her. _"You_ must be dead on your feet, too."

"I am," she confesses with a guilty smile. "I just wanted to check on you first. I knew you wouldn't have gone up yet."

"Well," he says, groaning as he glances at the clock, "I suppose it's time."

She cocks her head, and he sees her lip start to disappear under her teeth once again, driving him mad with something he isn't sure he wants to identify aloud just yet.

"Walk with me?" she asks.

He sees the caring and concern in her eyes and his heart flutters. He realizes he's always seen it there, buried in the deep blue, but now it seems _more,_ somehow.

She sees the shift in his eyes, the slight furrow to his brow. "What is it?"

But he shakes his head. "It's nothing," he says, rising from his chair. "At least … it's nothing to discuss now."

She thinks her heart will stop beating altogether as his eyes bore into hers, his bushy eyebrow raised as though he can convince her with a mere flick of his eyes to do his bidding.

Which, of course, he probably _can._

 _Best not to let him know that,_ she thinks. _Not yet._

She takes the cup and saucer from him and brings them to the kitchen sink. When she returns, he's locking his pantry door, his fingers maneuvering around yet another small, delicate item. She is entranced, imagining his fingers dancing across her shoulder one day; perhaps - though she almost dares not hope - they will someday be dancing across other, more intimate parts of her body. The thought frightens and thrills her in equal measure.

"What is it?" he half-jokes, repeating her question from moments ago.

" _Definitely_ not a discussion for now," she says, grateful for the darkness of the corridor as they approach the stairs.

He says nothing as they walk up, but then, just as they near the top, "But for someday, perhaps?"

She reaches for his fingers and brushes them with her own before turning toward her own quarters.

"I do hope so," she whispers. She sends him a smile, and a brief nod when he returns her smile in kind. "Good night, Mr. Carson."

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes. Sweet dreams."

* * *

 _ **A review would be lovely if you can spare a moment - thank you! xxx**_


	19. By the Water's Edge

**A/N: Here we are! Woo-hoo - BEACH PADDLING! I've been trying to stay about -/= 2,500 words per chapter, but I couldn't bear to divide this one up. Sorry/not sorry.**

 **My many sincere thanks to all of you who are still steadfastly reviewing and those who have stuck by me on this little fic journey. I can assure you that your patience will be rewarded, as we are now at what I call the turning point in the story - the end of S4 and (with Chapter 20) the beginning of S5.**

 **I appreciate your kind reviews, PMs, texts, and more so very, very much.**

 **Many thanks - xxx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Build me a boat**_

 _ **That can carry two,**_

 _ **And both shall row**_

 _ **My love and I ...**_

* * *

Mr. Carson supervises the staff as they make their way onto the beach. He's intrigued, watching as they meander off in small groups. Some are predictable, like the Bateses and Mrs. Patmore with Daisy; others aren't, like how Mr. Barrow is at ease being with the other men and not setting himself apart, or how Miss Baxter is currently chatting with Mr. Molesley, who doesn't seem to _want_ to go with the other men but who seems a bit nervous around his current companion as well.

And Mrs. Hughes stands by the butler's side … his right hand, always.

"What do you say, Mr. Carson? Near the boardwalk or closer to the water?"

He turns to her and she's shielding her eyes from the sun; despite the lovely hat she's chosen for today, the sun is at just the right angle to creep under the brim. She's not looking at him but rather out at the surf, a longing in her voice.

"Further down, if you prefer," he says, despite his feelings of loathing towards the sand that gets in one's shoes and his own personal fear of swimming in anything larger than a bathtub. "Preferably away from the heavy foot traffic," he adds. "I don't want sand being kicked up into our food."

His voice is shaky and she turns to him, questioning silently. But he just raises his formidable brow as if daring her to contradict him, and so with a chuckle and a shake of her head she makes her way to a relatively empty spot in the sand. She's carrying a rather sturdy blanket and he has taken their picnic basket from her, having silenced her protests with some mumbled words about her needing to balance herself on the shifting sand.

She appreciated the gesture and, as they trek across the uneven surface, she withholds a comment about how now it's _she_ who worries about _him_ falling.

But he doesn't. They arrive safely at her chosen destination and she spreads the blanket expertly, allowing the sea breeze to help lift and then settle it neatly on the sand.

"We'll weigh it down with the basket and our shoes," she says sensibly.

"Our _shoes?"_

A girlish giggle seems to come out of her from nowhere, surprising him. She laughs on occasion, to be sure, but this is a new sound that causes his heart to skip a beat.

"Yes, Mr. Carson. Our shoes. Unless you fancy paddling in the water while _wearing_ them?"

"I don't fancy paddling in the water _at all,"_ he says emphatically. "And I don't think it's proper to remove my shoes … certainly not in front of everyone."

She laughs heartily at that - a slightly more familiar sound to him - and then shakes her head as she sits upon the blanket to unpack their lunch. She comments that it was brilliant of Mrs. Patmore to have prepared _several_ baskets, so that people could break off into smaller groups and not have to trek back to any one spot in order to eat. She identifies aloud the name of each item as she pulls it out - chicken sandwiches and cider and a few other things - before Mr. Carson realizes that he's still standing immobile and just _staring_ at her, her face now hidden almost completely under the brim of the hat as she bends over the basket. He quickly turns to where the other men are gathered in the water.

She sighs. "Are you not going to join me, Mr. Carson? For heaven's sake, you can't eat standing up." She knows he's supervising the younger men, and she loves him for it. "It's _your_ day off, too, you know," she chides gently, patting the blanket beside her. "You can't spend all day watching over them."

He looks down and into her eyes, deeper than the color of the sea and highlighted by her happy demeanor.

"Well ... If you're sure. I'm not positive I'll be able to get up again, however."

Another giggle. "Oh, I'm sure we'll manage, Mr. Carson. We're not dead yet!"

He does manage to get _down,_ and she even convinces him to remove his shoes once the breeze lifts the corner of the blanket and flips sand in the general vicinity of his feet. He blushes as she does the same, unable to keep his eyes off of the juxtaposition of her dainty shoes on one corner of the blanket opposite his rather larger ones on the other.

They enjoy their lunch quietly, and Mr. Carson begins to relax as the sound of the surf and the feel of the calm, warm breeze seep into his psyche. Their attention is once again drawn by the younger staff - a game of catch in the shallow surf has been started, and the laughter carries to their ears, making them each smile.

"Remind me to thank her Ladyship again," Mrs. Hughes sighs. "This is the perfect way to relax."

"Everyone should be thanking _you,"_ he replies. "Because her Ladyship would have allowed _me_ to have everyone visiting the Crystal Palace today." He looks back to where Mrs. Patmore and Daisy are engaged in deep conversation, and it occurs to him for the first time that day that it's odd to be separated from the cook, so often their companion on events they attend as an entire staff, and he wonders if Mrs. Patmore meant for it to be that way. It doesn't quite make him uncomfortable, but it has him wondering if the woman might just understand more than she lets on.

"It's all to you that they're enjoying themselves, Mrs. Hughes," he says again.

"And you? Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Carson?"

He smiles sweetly at her. "I am."

With a hum, she begins to repack the basket with their dirty dishes and towels. But she's smiling, and he's sure the flush on her cheeks isn't simply due to the afternoon's climbing heat.

They chat on for awhile longer, about nothing in particular. She finishes her cider and he notices that his is only halfway gone, and it makes him realize that _he_ has done more of the talking today. Shaking his head, he finishes it in three large gulps and places the bottles in the basket.

Mrs. Hughes moves suddenly, reaching for her shoes and beginning to put them back on her feet.

"Is everything alright?"

She's looking around the beach as if trying to locate someone … or, he realizes belatedly, some _thing._

"Ah," she says to herself.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just heading off to that tent," she tells him, indicating the nearest one with a wave of her hand.

His eyes are like saucers and she laughs at him again.

"You … You're not … _surely_ not …" he sputters.

"No, Mr. Carson, have no fear. I've not tucked a swimming suit anywhere. I simply need to remove my stockings so that I can get down to that water."

The gleam in her eye is determined and almost mischievous, and she adds with a smirk, "Unless you'd prefer I remove them _here_ in front of all and sundry?"

He's positively apoplectic at the thought. She stands, daring to rest her hand on his shoulder for a moment to catch her balance. The entire conversation has done nothing for _his_ sense of balance, of course, and he's almost grateful when she begins walking away.

He looks out at the surf, at how the waves have calmed since they arrived, and he feels a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. The sun is hot, and suddenly the cooling waters of the sea are almost beckoning to him. Perhaps he can just tuck his toes in, let the water wash over them just a bit …

 _What was it she said? Let the staff see that he belongs to the human race?_

 _Hmph._

He leans forward and begins to remove his socks, rolling them neatly and tucking them into his shoes. He glances down at the people by the water's edge, studies them for a moment, and then turns back to his trouser legs and rolls up the cuffs a bit. He's midway through the second when he senses her return. Resolutely _not_ staring at the legs that are now directly beside him, he manages to complete his task.

"You've changed your mind, Mr. Carson!" She's clearly gleeful, her voice twinkling in her delight.

He grunts as he stands, takes a deep breath, and tugs on his waistcoat.

"Do you think our things will be alright?" he asks, worried.

"I'm sure they will. Come on, then!"

She's like a schoolgirl she's so giddy, and it has him a bit on edge. It's a glimpse into an aspect of her personality that he rarely gets to see - _Like the giggling,_ he realizes - and it makes him consider how very much different _Elsie_ might actually be from the _Mrs. Hughes_ that he knows so well. It has him wondering how many _more_ sweet details about her true person he has yet to unearth.

It seems that they're the only ones around who'd eaten early, because now most of the people who'd populated the water's edge only a few moments ago are now all back to their own blankets and chairs, affording Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes a scant amount of privacy. And the sand is hotter than either of them imagined, meaning they're tiptoeing and shuffling as quickly as possible down to where it's wet.

Mrs. Hughes sighs in relief as the cool sand hits the soles of her feet, and she gasps with delight when the surf rolls over her toes. She turns and sees Mr. Carson still a few steps back, and she smiles exasperatedly at him. The breeze is lifting his hair, his sleeves and trouser legs are rolled up, and she thinks he looks somewhat like a little boy who's trying desperately to dress up like an adult man. He's definitely unsure of the situation in which he finds himself, and she remembers suddenly that he'd told her once he cannot swim.

 _Oh, Elsie, how could you have forgotten?_ she asks herself. Still, she's not asking him for a swim, merely trying to get him to cool off in the shallow waves. With her.

The breeze picks up and she lifts her skirts and wades into the water a bit. She hears a surprised gasp come from him and knows the cold water has just splashed over _his_ ankles as well, and she turns to face him.

"Come on! I dare ye!"

"But ... if I get my trousers wet-"

"If you get them wet, we'll _dry_ them," she interrupts, a smile playing about her lips.

He's trying so very hard not to stare at her legs, and that mixed with his anxiety about getting in the water is almost overpowering him. And her _brogue!_ He realizes it's so much thicker now that they're away from the job and more able to relax and be themselves. He notices it late at night sometimes, too, after they've shared a particularly good port and she's a bit more at ease.

"Suppose I fall over?" He knows he sounds faintly ridiculous at this point, but there's nothing to be done about it.

It's all she can do not to roll her eyes. "Suppose a bomb goes off? Suppose we get hit by a falling star? You can hold my hand; then we'll both go in together."

Her brilliant smile is what convinces him. In it, he sees simultaneously a challenge, a comfort, and a reminder that - at the end of the day - it's just _her._

"I think I will hold your hand," he decides, moving closer to her and shivering a bit at the chill of the water. "It'll make me feel a bit steadier."

She focuses _very_ hard on her steps and not his legs.

"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."

"I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound … a little _risqué."_

And then she's smiling and almost laughing again, and it's _that_ which finally opens his eyes to the entire situation.

 _She's_ _ **planned**_ _this,_ he realizes with a happy jolt. _All of it._

"And if I did?"

She holds her hand out to him, a challenge of sorts, but she knows he'll accept it.

And he does, glances from the rest of them be damned. He's sure that somewhere, someone from the house is watching them both … he just doesn't really _care_ anymore.

He grasps her soft, warm fingers in his, and looks into her lovely face; she squeezes his hand back and shakes it a bit, an affirmation that they are, in fact, in this together … and that it feels _right._

"We're gettin' on, Mr. Carson, you and I. We can afford to live a little."

She shivers a bit herself as they move further into the water. "Oooh," she gasps, and he smiles once again at her almost childlike exuberance.

It's odd, walking in the water. He's supposed to be steadied by her touch, and in some ways he is, but he's so unsteady in others.

He squeezes her hand a bit tighter, and she turns to look up at him.

She fully expects to see fear on his face, but instead she sees the soft, loving glance that she's received several times in the past couple of years, the look that he allows her to see when they're truly alone, when his defenses are down because he's tired, or when she needs a bit of bolstering. It speaks of love that goes far beyond a simple friendship, and she returns it in kind.

"I'm so glad you dragged me here," he says, his rumbling voice somewhat quiet as it mixes with the sound of the waves crashing lightly on the shore.

"I remembered too late that you don't know how to swim," she admits. "We don't have to stay in long. It's just that it's so hot today, and when are we ever actually at the seaside?"

He purses his lips, then nods minutely as if he's committed himself to something. "I find I'd rather stay in as long as possible."

Suddenly she's _beaming_ at him, and he's glad he took the risk.

"I rather like having you all to myself here," he continues, tilting his head back toward the beach and, by extension, the rest of the staff. "They can _see_ us, but they can't _hear_ us, and they most certainly aren't going to come chasing after us. It's a rare moment, Mrs. Hughes."

"Indeed," she acknowledges, slightly breathless as she draws her lower lip under her teeth once again. But her eyes are dancing, and he doesn't fail to notice.

Her heart is virtually exploding with joy. She has to be very careful to keep a friendly distance between their bodies so that, to everyone on the beach, it will still appear that their butler and housekeeper are two good friends who are perhaps a bit unsteady on their feet.

He hasn't dropped her hand, and she squeezes his again as they paddle along. It's a sign of his strength, and she marvels at how _right_ she feels with the contact.

"You seem well lately," he says after a while, and she looks at him suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"Just … more at ease, I suppose," he says. "More so than I've seen you in quite a while, if I may be so bold as to say it."

She glances up at the beach to where Anna and Mr. Bates are sitting - a bit closer to the water than the others, but lost in deep conversation with each other - and back at the water.

"Yes," she agrees. "I suppose I am."

She feels his hand tense, and she's instantly on the defensive. "What is it?"

He licks his lips, contemplating what to say.

"Nothing. I don't think this is the right time," he manages.

She stops walking and turns to face him, noting that the hem of her skirt is a bit wet because she is paying too little attention to the water. She lifts the fabric up just a bit higher, aware that she needs to be careful to not be improper.

"Out with it, Mr. Carson."

He raises a prodigious eyebrow. "Anna?"

He sees Mrs. Hughes's face blanch, and he gives her hand another reassuring squeeze. "It's alright," he adds quickly. "It's just that I'm sure I've put it together by now. And _they_ seem to be doing a bit better lately, and I've noticed that _you've_ seemed a bit more at ease, too." A pause. "Until recently, that is. But in general …"

He's rambling and knows it, so he cuts himself off, waiting to see if she'll reply. He almost expected to see anger in her eyes at his blatant addressing of the topic, but what he sees instead is a bit of fear, a great deal of sadness, and what he thinks is _relief_.

"Yes, it's better." She gives him a half-hearted smile and a gentle tug, and they begin to walk again. "How did you know?"

A ripple of emotion passes over his face. "I didn't, not at first. But you were so attentive to her - more so than usual. Truth be told, it was her manner around Mr. Bates that really tipped me off."

"I see. I did warn her about that."

"Surely she couldn't have helped it," he murmurs kindly, and he sees her glance at him in surprise.

Another few steps, then, "This is not the first time I've been exposed to a woman who's been through that sort of … horror, Mrs. Hughes. When I was on the stage … Well, let's just say that some men had no idea how women should be treated. There were some who were only a little unkind, to be sure, but every once in awhile one came along who was …"

"Evil," she states, and he nods.

"Yes. That's a good word."

She contemplates him, staring unabashedly at his profile now.

"It was horrible," she whispers shakily. "But I've seen it happen before, too, so I knew what to do."

"In service?" he asks. He's heard stories, of course, but to his knowledge nothing of that sort has ever happened at Downton, nor at any other house he's familiar with in their general area.

"No, no … In Argyll," she clarifies.

His eyes widen in agony at the thought that just flew through his mind. "But ... you were so young when you left, weren't you?"

"Seventeen," she replies, remembering. "It was our neighbor. My Mam cared for her, but it was kept very quiet."

He breathes a deep sigh of relief that it wasn't _her._

"She can't know that you know," Mrs. Hughes says suddenly. "Anna, I mean."

"I understand that. I do wish _you_ had told me, though."

She stops again and turns to him, caressing the top of his hand with her thumb.

"It was enough to know you were there, Mr. Carson," she murmurs, her words almost lost in the sound of the waves and the breeze. "That alone helps me get through most things."

"But now he's dead," Mr. Carson says.

"Yes." Her eyes tell him she's not saying anything more about it, and he understands. He doesn't really want to think of the possibilities surrounding the valet's death, but he's not exactly sorry about it … and he doesn't think she is, either.

"We should make our way back," she says sadly.

His back is to the ocean now, and he glances up at the beach. He can barely make out the Bateses anymore, nor can he identify any of the others walking by the water's edge, but it's still not worth the risk.

She sees the longing in his eyes and knows what he's thinking.

"They _can_ still see us, Mr. Carson. Particularly as we're likely the only people this far out in the water without proper bathing attire."

"Very true."

She smiles at him and gives his hand one more squeeze.

"Feeling steadier now?" she teases.

He looks down at their hands, and he laces his fingers between hers.

"Quite the opposite, Mrs. Hughes. But I certainly don't mind."

The atmosphere between them is heady and she has to be very careful not to become overwhelmed. Glancing down, she finds her escape.

"Your trousers are wet," she laughs, tugging his arm as they walk to the shore. "Come on."

He drops her hand as soon as they reach the foamy surface of the beach sand, and she watches as he bends down and plucks something from the beach.

He stands again and holds his hand out to her; she reaches out, and he places a perfectly-formed scallop shell into her hand.

"What do you see?" he asks abruptly, tapping the shell. "Here?"

She runs her finger over the surface, examining it, and looks up at him curiously. "What do I see, Mr. Carson? I see a shell."

"And?"

"And it's a seashell! What on earth are you on about?"

"What do you _see?"_ he repeats quietly, patiently.

She sighs and glances past him for a moment, the sound of Mrs. Patmore's voice carrying across the sand. They're preparing to leave soon, and she and Mr. Carson must return to their things.

Holding the shell in her hand, she ponders his question. "It's pink. Rigid, I suppose." She looks at it intently. "Yes, rigid. But ... uniform?" His eyes are boring into her, and she adds, "I'm not sure what you're expecting me to say."

He smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling. "You've done marvelously. But the thing is, that's what _you_ see. That's what most people would see upon looking at this shell," he explains.

He reaches for the shell and turns it over slowly, exposing the underside and running his fingertip over it … and over her palm, too.

"But despite how you and everyone else only see the rigid, uniform exterior, all that _I_ see is the beauty hidden beneath it."

She looks down at her hand and sees the blue-white shimmer of the underside of the shell.

"There's a beautiful pattern, unique to this particular creature," he continues. "There's no other like it in the world. _That_ is what I see, Mrs. Hughes."

He swiftly closes her fingers over the shell.

"Keep it. A souvenir of the day we _didn't_ go to the Crystal Palace."

She stares dumbfounded at his retreating form, shaking her head as her mouth rests open in a silent gasp.

 _No, he's most_ _ **definitely**_ _not a stranger to romance,_ she thinks, her heart racing.

Another shout from Mrs. Patmore, this one accompanied by a wave of the hand, has Mrs. Hughes gathering up her skirts once again and hurrying back to the blanket, aware suddenly of the need to put her stockings and shoes back on before they can pack up and leave.

* * *

 **Rather nerve-wracking taking on this particular scene, so idolized by almost all DA fans! Drop me a line and let me know what you thought, if you please. x**


	20. Too Close to the Fire

**A/N: Thank you all for your continued support for this story. It means so very much.**

 **I daresay this is going to be a good chapter for most of you. It's a bit chaotic at first, but that's the point.**

 **I hope you find the rest of the story fulfills its purpose of "happening behind the scenes" but fitting seamlessly in with canon.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **I've been sleepwalking**_

 _ **Too close to the fire**_

 _ **But it's the only place**_

 _ **That I can hold you tight**_

 _ **In this burning house ...**_

* * *

Mr. Carson is frantic.

There's smoke and a good deal of yelling and chaos, and he never feels quite _himself_ in chaos. Not downstairs chaos, anyhow. Upstairs, he's fine; he knows how to blend into the background, how to be _there_ but not precisely _amidst_ everything happening.

But now there's _too much_ happening. He supposes he is meant to be in charge, even though he knows his Lordship had sent Rose for Mrs. Hughes originally. Realizing that his Lordship and Mr. Branson are still fighting the fire inside, too, he does what he can. It's completely backwards of how he'd have had it otherwise, but he knows how to handle it all. The goal is quite clear, really: _Get everyone out._

 _And James. Where the_ _ **hell**_ _is James?_

"Peter! Look in the bathroom. See if you can find James. Mr. Molesley, hurry along, please."

He feels responsible for the young man; they're his charges, after all.

 _ **Our**_ _charges,_ he hears her voice whisper in his mind, and his heart sings.

 _Yes, they're_ _ **our** __charges. Our **family.**_

And then he sees her.

 _ **Finally.**_

She rushes past him as the staff is flooding down the stairway; he manages to lay a hand on her back, picking up on a waft of smoke and fear and lavender coming off of her ... some strange combination that his mind registers simultaneously as _danger_ and _home._

He makes sure Mrs. Patmore is careful going down the stairs, and suddenly the lights go out and people are terrified. He does his best to reassure them, quickly clicking on his torch as the rest of the staff file down the stairway.

They're all outside now, thank God. The pump truck has arrived and the fire is being put out. A glance toward the house tells him that his Lordship has made it out as well, and Mr. Carson can hear the children in the distance and breathes a sigh of relief. Mrs. Hughes is by his side, but then so are her maids _and_ Lady Rose. Everyone is milling about, checking in on those who need medical care or a bit of reassurance that all will be well.

He makes his way over to speak with Lord Grantham when his eyes clap on something rather unnerving ...

 _James._

The young man has shown up looking less confident than the butler has ever seen him, and his Lordship quickly explains the situation.

"I don't wish to be harsh, but I have a feeling James would be better employed elsewhere."

"Oh?"

"Don't ask me _why_ I think so, but I suspect his ambitions rather outstrip what a career as a footman will yield."

A glance toward the house tells Mr. Carson all he needs to know, for there is James, deep in hushed conversation with none other than Lady Anstruther.

"As your Lordship wishes."

"And give him a good reference. We don't want it talked about."

"Understood, Milord."

He knows he will let the young man go first thing tomorrow, and he knows it's a good thing that his Lordship specifically asked him to give James a reference. Mr. Carson finds himself embarrassed that he'd never have known about James's transgression were it not for the fire; perhaps he's losing his touch regarding the staff, if James could be having some illicit affair in the bed of a guest and he hadn't been any the wiser.

' _I was Jimmy at my other house,'_ he remembers the lad saying.

 _No doubt,_ the butler thinks now.

And then he spies Mrs. Hughes, standing and speaking with her Ladyship. The housekeeper is wrapped in some kind of dressing gown or maybe a bedspread, even, and looking more beautiful than he thinks he's ever seen her. He fleetingly wonders if she was in the midst of undressing for the night when the call sounded. She's a bit disheveled, almost youthful in her appearance; she's obviously been taken unawares by the fire, as they all were, but it's unlike her to be so frazzled. He's not even sure if the others notice it about her.

 _Perhaps Mrs. Patmore would,_ he thinks. _But only her._

And he knows Mrs. Hughes is still a bit afraid, even now. She was scared half to death by the fire, he can tell; one shared glance between them saying everything that they could never speak aloud.

 _Not here, anyhow._

Before Mrs. Hughes has time to even look for him, he's by her side and ushering her back into the house. He breathes deeply, once again catching the fragrance that's only her. He knows by her intent examination of his facial expression that, in her own way, she's doing the same - reassuring herself that he is, in fact, standing before her, strong and sure and _unharmed._

"I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find you," she whispers, so faintly that no one but he would ever have heard it.

He opens his mouth to reply but is summoned by his Lordship once again and knows he must go. He purses his lips and looks fiercely into her eyes, and she gives a minute tilt of the head in his Lordship's direction: _Go._

He knows she'll see him later, in her sitting room or his, once everyone else is safely in bed. She'll be there, waiting for him, just as she always has been.

And tonight, he'll finally allow himself to _truly_ go to her, just as he's always wanted to do.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

She's pacing and wringing her hands, unable to focus on anything at all except the emptiness she feels in her sitting room, the overwhelming absence of him. It's been over an hour and the tea she has prepared has gone cold, yet she fears going to remake it in case he stops by at that time and somehow misses her.

 _Which is impossible, really,_ she tells herself, _because he'd hear someone pottering about in the kitchen._ It doesn't matter, though, because she's not going anywhere.

And then her door opens.

Before she knows it he's standing before her, and her hands are suddenly clutched in his; he's staring so intently at her that she forgets to breathe; she is finally forced to gulp in a huge amount of air so that she doesn't pass out.

"I was so frightened," he breathes, laying himself before her, completely raw.

She nods; the motion makes a tear slip out of the corner of her eye and she moves to wipe it, but he beats her to it, relinquishing her right hand and leaving it hovering between them while keeping her left tightly held.

The feel of his fingertips on her face is perhaps the most precious thing she's ever experienced, like silk on silk. It's something so personal, so _intimate,_ but she has no words for it that seem remotely adequate. And she knows it's not just the physical touch but the fact that it's _him_ and _how_ he touches her. He caresses her as if she's the most precious thing in the world to him, something made of glass, something infinitely more fragile than the persona of strength she spends so much time showing the rest of the world.

 _Like the seashell,_ she thinks. _He sees in me what no one else does. And I, him._

"As was I." It's a fleeting murmur, but it echoes in his head as though she'd shouted the words.

She realizes now that her left hand is suddenly free, too, that he's moved his own away from it; before she knows it, both of his hands are on her upper arms, grasping them rather tightly. A glance to his face tells her he's not in distress, but the thing she _does_ see in his eyes is almost unreadable. It's something dark, the depths of which she's not encountered before. It's a strange sensation for her, not being able to read him; she guesses after a moment what it might be, though, and the way his face is slowly approaching her own confirms her suspicions.

She reaches up and presses her hands to his chest - not to stop his progress, but to steady herself. She grasps blindly at the fabric that covers him, unaware of what, precisely, she's touching - it could be the pajamas, because his gown _has_ separated a bit in front - but she can't tear her eyes from his in order to look.

Seconds before their lips meet - mere _centimetres_ apart - he pauses. She feels he's seeking permission, giving her a chance to push him away. Her heart skips a beat when she thinks he might even be _reconsidering;_ before she can control herself, she simply pulls him to her to close the gap.

It's been a _very_ long time since she's been kissed, and she's fairly certain that it's been even longer for him. She's caught up in the sensation; she thinks of how his lips are so _warm_ and _soft._ That shocks her for some reason. There's a quiver she feels in his hand as he clutches her arm. He's nervous, and it's on display for her to see, from this most intimate contact. He hums as his lips move lightly over hers.

He breaks away much too early, well before she is ready for him to do so, and her heart begins to beat again, in some kind of overactive rhythm as if to make up for the beats she's sure it skipped when their mouths were touching.

She licks her lips, and she sees his eyes darken a bit more. It makes her flush uncontrollably with embarrassment and desire mixed together. Before she knows it, words are tumbling from her mouth.

"And are you still terrified, Mr. Carson?" she whispers.

He stands up straighter, his hands slide from her upper arms back to her hands, and he's pulling them off of his robe. He feels her grasp his thumbs, and he caresses the back of her hands gently with the tips of his still-trembling fingers.

"Well … not in the same way," he acknowledges with a slight smirk.

She smiles softly, and she feels the strain in her heart as he moves away from her.

"It's late," he says by way of explanation. He holds the door open and she passes through, but as she turns to lock it, she realizes that she doesn't have her keys.

"Leave it," he murmurs, his hand at the small of her back. "No one will be down here again tonight … not after all that excitement."

She nods, and he takes her hand as he follows one step behind her up the stairs.

They crest the staircase and face one another, hands still holding on.

"Good night, Mr. Carson." Her voice curls slowly around the sounds of his name, and he thinks he'd like nothing more than to hear her speak his name for the rest of their lives, just like she's done now.

He smiles at her, does that thing with his face that's a sort of raise of his eyebrows and a gentle nod all at the same time, and it makes her heart flip a bit harder than usual.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes." He relinquishes his grasp on her at last and watches her walk into her room, staring at her door as it slowly closes and clicks shut.

He turns to walk to his own, and he contemplates the name tag on his door as he's turning the knob. It's a visual representation of his space, of the butler that inhabits the house, of the room reserved for the man in charge of it all.

 _Mr. Carson ..._

It's been who he was for so much of his life, and he'd almost forgotten that _Charles_ still lives somewhere within, hidden most of the time but called to the forefront when _Elsie_ is near.

He reaches out and brushes the letters on the name tag with his finger. For the first time in his life, he considers that there may be something in this world that's even _more_ important than remaining proudly and steadfastly in his post until the day he draws his last breath.

Considers that, perhaps, it's time to do something about it.

* * *

 **Yes? No? Maybe so? Please leave a little review and let me know what you thought. x**


	21. Parallels

**A/N: The quote from this was recently used by chelsiefan71 in her amazing "Downton Academy." I had it in and thought it looked familiar, and she verified that. So ... just tossing that out there. (Ahem - that's a fab fic series, btw.)**

 **Thanks to all for your support. This chapter gave me a bit of trouble, but I'm not sure why. It's set up, as the title indicates, as parallels between Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson, and it's somewhat of a jumble because their _thoughts_ are a jumble after that last chapter. No dialogue here, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.**

 **Time-wise, we're still between Ep 1 and 2 of Season 5.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep**_ _ **because reality is finally better than your dreams.**_

 _ **~Dr. Seuss**_

* * *

Mrs. Hughes closes the door softly, feeling as though she's floating through her room. If it weren't for the soft sound made by her slippers' soles touching the hard floor boards, she'd never have known her feet were making contact with the floor at all.

Her lips are aflame with a heat matched only by the one burning in her chest. She can recall each second of the last hour, replaying them all on a long, drawn-out loop in her brain, and she's fairly certain that sleep won't come easily tonight.

The fire was awful, but her relief upon hearing Mr. Carson's voice carrying through the stairwell overtook all; it banished the fear from her heart, and the brief but fleeting touch of his hand to the small of her back as she scurried downstairs and outside with the others … well, _that_ is something she won't soon forget. He'd gasped upon touching her, and she remembers sighing happily despite the situation as her feet carried her further down the stairs _._ Not long after, her relieved smile met his own when he joined her on the path by the Abbey, although they were both pulled away from one another's attention too quickly. But they had jobs to do, first and foremost, and they always performed them admirably.

Her mind wanders now ... She's worried about Lady Edith, and now that she's alone in her room she can allow herself to process that. The housekeeper has no doubt in her mind as to the identity of Miss Marigold, not after seeing Mr. Drewe speaking to Lady Edith in hushed tones by the pump truck. Mrs. Hughes's first clue had actually come months ago, from Madge's behavior - once boisterous and jovial, but lately quieter and not willing to discuss Lady Edith with _anyone_ anymore, particularly not with Anna. And now Mrs. Hughes knows perfectly well that her suspicions were accurate, because the look in Mr. Drewe's eyes when he'd seen the housekeeper watching him had spoken volumes.

 _Something_ _ **else**_ _to keep hidden from Mr. Carson,_ she tells herself. _But he doesn't need anything more to worry him anyhow._

She knows he's at sixes and sevens with the entire war memorial situation. As she climbs underneath her covers, she allows her chest to fill with pride at how he's managed the entire situation thus far: how he's managed to keep Lord Grantham involved in the entire process, how he refused to proceed without his Lordship being involved. The corner of her mouth curves up in a smile as she thinks of how he manages them all so effortlessly, even Lady Mary most of the time, and of how they likely don't even realize it. It's what makes him the best butler in the county, she's certain.

She rolls over, still wide awake but more than ready to enhance her dreams with touches of her new reality. She wonders for a moment if Mr. Carson isn't perhaps managing _her_ just as deftly, for just when she thinks she's in charge of their whole precarious, odd, more-than-strictly-a-friendship, he surprises her once again with his need for her ... and with his uncanny ability to knock her off her feet.

Only tonight, her need was just as great. She feels her body thrum with excitement and longing as she recalls having so wantonly grasped his shirt and pulled him toward her, not willing to wait another moment to feel his lips upon hers.

 _He didn't seem to mind._

 _Only now what?_

Now what, indeed? They still don't have an understanding, not properly. How many times has she played this over in her head? She's lost count, she thinks. He's not given her any indication that he wishes to court her, really … or _marry_ her _,_ the thought of which both delights and frightens her equally. They'd surely lose their positions - well, _she_ would. She can't imagine that they'd let _him_ go unless circumstances changed drastically in the next few years. Anna would be a more than suitable replacement for Mrs. Hughes, and the housekeeper knows it. Even Miss Baxter shows promise there.

 _But Mr. Barrow as butler? Hardly._

She tosses and turns for another hour before sleep finally claims her; much to her chagrin, she discovers upon waking that her dreams were, in fact, devoid of anything having to do with Mr. Carson.

 _Damn._

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

As Mrs. Hughes walked away, Mr. Carson couldn't take his eyes off of her feet.

 _Of all things to be captivated by,_ he chuckled to himself.

He realizes it now that he's tucked into his room and removing his dressing gown that what he was truly distracted by were her slippers ... the ones that he'd gifted to her on that strange Christmas, the one when they'd simultaneously (and silently) decided they were more than mere colleagues but weren't really sure how else to think of themselves. He smiles as he recalls that they'd each given a gift to make the other person's life a bit warmer, softer … something to make them cared for in a way that neither of them normally are by anyone else.

Her feet are so _small,_ like the rest of her, and he'd been enthralled by them, clad in the soft leather that took her away in a whisper of sound. It was such a contrast to the Mrs. Hughes they all see during the day, the woman who embodies strength, the one whose chatelaine clinks with every determined step she makes through corridor, office, and hallway as it collides against the stiff fabric of her skirts.

Mr. Carson has so much on his mind lately, and Lady Edith's narrowly escaping harm is most definitely at the forefront. There is something not quite right about the entire situation.

 _How **did** a fire start in her room?_

Something is niggling at the back of his mind, but he can't manage to bring it forth amidst everything else in there. It's just that if a fire were to spontaneously start in any area of the Abbey, he'd have suspected the kitchens, or perhaps the library, but not in a bedroom.

He leaves that train of thought for the moment, though, because the war memorial committee is bothering him greatly. He feels he's been played a bit by the people from town, can't help wondering if he's being used as a pawn in something that's a larger statement than just constructing a memorial. He wonders if perhaps having asked _him_ to be their leader was just an example of their desire to stand up against the established order.

He could almost stomach that, could very nearly accept that the world _is_ changing and that he _is,_ despite all efforts to the contrary, being swept up in that change. But a direct blow to Lord Grantham? That he cannot support.

 _Except you may end up supporting them in the end after all. Because if you and his Lordship don't agree about how to proceed, then what?_

What, indeed?

Which brings him back to Mrs. Hughes, the one who encouraged and supported him to lead the committee, the one who _truly_ believed he'd be the better man for the job. He knows full well that, most of the time, she's managing him, steering him toward decisions that support her own desires and decisions. But _this_ time, in _this_ instance, he had understood instantly that her support stemmed not from wanting anything from him, not from wanting to prove a point, but simply from her faith in him and in her belief that he's capable of making decisions to benefit the entire town.

Mr. Carson can't help but to find it ironic that there is so much that he wants from her - personal things, things that will move their affection for one another to the next level and beyond - but there is very little of substance that she ever seems to want from him other than to have him be his best self, to have him be true to his convictions and yet willing to see things from others' point of view. She's perhaps the only one in the entire household who not only sees him for what he is, but _appreciates_ him for it as well, and he returns her appreciation and …

 _... Yes, Charlie,_ _ **love**_ _, at least on your end_ _... in spades._

And now, he knows, he's faced with the seemingly insurmountable task of _telling_ her that.

He can't come right out and declare himself, no. That type of thing is for the young, and would open both him and Mrs. Hughes to the possibility of scrutiny, perhaps even to suspicions that they've not been the ultimate professionals that they claim to be.

He rolls over almost violently in his bed, angry at the unfairness of it all: their positions are what forced them into a close working relationship, necessitating an awareness of and care for one another in order to keep the Abbey operating seamlessly. Over time, that working relationship clearly blossomed into something more, something ignited by the brief-but-intense kiss they'd just shared in her sitting room. And now that they're at the cusp of something so beautiful, they must back away from it for the sake of those very professions that put them into this predicament in the first place.

He's certain that Lord Grantham wouldn't let them go should Mr. Carson choose to court or, dare he even dream of it, _marry_ Mrs. Hughes … but he feels he needs to have a plan, something concrete instead of just talk of love and affection.

And so the butler tosses and turns for well over an hour, knowing that if he can ever manage sleep tonight, his dreams will be so much richer for knowing - _finally_ \- the sweet feeling of her soft lips against his own, and the fire ignited inside of him from the glorious moment when she'd grasped tightly to his pajamas and pulled him toward her, unwilling to wait even a second longer for them to claim one another as their own.

* * *

 **Someone wondered in a review of the last chapter how they'd possibly have gotten from a kiss to the awkwardness that we saw on our screens in S5. I hope this suffices to explain that. 3 Let me know what you thought! x**


	22. What to Say?

**A/N: Choppy chapter is a bit choppy, and it's a bit introspective where Mr. Carson is concerned. I had things to convey, and I've battled with this chapter long enough so I'm putting it out there. Would love a wee review to know what you thought, if you feel so inclined. X**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **All the voices that are spinnin' around me**_

 _ **Trying to tell me what to say**_

 _ **Can I fly right behind you**_

 _ **And you can take me away ...**_

* * *

 _ **Spring, 1924**_

The next morning finds things somewhat back to normal at the Abbey, or at least as normal as they can be the day after a house fire. James has just left and Molesley seems to be taking it in stride, all things considered. In fact, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson are nearly run down by the man as he turns the corner of the staircase, serving tray in hand. It's all Mrs. Hughes can do not to smile as Mr. Carson reminds Mr. Molesley that he _can_ be the first footman if he wants to think of it that way.

Mrs. Hughes isn't sure that they'll ever hire another one anyhow, not with how things have been going at the other estates across England. They get bits and bobs of news - a tidbit at church, a letter from another butler to Mr. Carson, a whisper of something from the upstairs ladies - and it makes her a bit nervous. Mrs. Hughes knows that _she'll_ have a job for as long as she needs one (which is basically forever as far as she can tell), but she fears for her girls, for those that weren't as industrious as Gwen, the ones who don't have a skill to hone and bring to a different workplace. She's come to see the brilliance in how Lady Sybil encouraged Gwen to do just that, bless her, and she secretly hopes that Daisy doesn't get discouraged before she truly begins her own studies, either.

 _The world is changing,_ she thinks, _no question about that._

Mr. Carson is still a steady presence by her side, though, even after last night. They've not spoken of their kiss, of course, as they've had no time. And as far as the housekeeper is concerned, that's quite alright. She knows where she stands now, a bit better than before anyhow; she knows she has a special place in his heart, and he in hers, and that's good enough for the time being. The chance of them discussing anything that may have happened last night is virtually non-existent.

But despite her own contentment with how things appear, Mr. Carson seems a bit off today, and she's sure it's not to do with her nor the fire. She was feeling a bit off herself when Anna found the photograph in Lady Edith's bed this morning; heaven knows that the Abbey holds myriad secrets, and it's possible that Mr. Carson is burdened by some as well.

 _The situation with James, for instance._

Mr. Carson never said what brought about the young man's sudden departure, but she has a pretty decent guess. And she knows he's troubled by all the business with the memorial; perhaps that's why, despite feeling that her best bet might be to avoid that particular topic of conversation, she simply can't keep herself from asking.

"Did it not go well this morning?"

"I was disappointed, if you must know," Mr. Carson replies. "But it's early days."

She watches him head into his pantry, but she chooses not to follow. There was a look in his eyes as he said it that she couldn't identify, and it made her a bit wary. Something almost ... _W_ _ell, **suspicious,** _ she thinks.

She gets a second chance to ask about it all a few days later, though, when it's occurred to her that perhaps avoiding the topic altogether is a bit more awkward than speaking of it, given that they usually talk about nearly everything having to do with the estate and the family. There's been no wine nor sherry these past few nights due to timing and family obligations and general fatigue; it feels strange to her, and she wouldn't want him to think she's been avoiding him.

She enquires hesitantly, "How are you getting on with the memorial?" as she follows him into his pantry.

And, bless him, he heaves a sigh. "Well, his Lordship is _resisting_ the idea of the garden."

 _Goodness,_ she thinks, _he's_ _ **shocked.**_ She can't help the small smile that flits across her countenance just before she manages to make it disappear.

"You don't _agree_ with him?" he asks, incredulous.

She doesn't even have to answer aloud; Mr. Carson can see her opinion written all over her face. While he knows Mrs. Hughes has stayed well out of the memorial arena, he realizes now that he'd expected she'd take his side. She's always been his best ally, and they rarely disagree over things that are truly important.

"Well," she says, "as it happens, I _do."_

" _What?"_

He's not really sure what to do, and his blustery answer will have to serve as his only reaction. She's so damned _close_ to him that he can hardly think about a more developed reply; memories of the other night, of her lips so warm and sure upon his own, of her fingers curling into and grasping the clothes at his chest, of her _pulling_ at him, bringing him closer … all of those things are bright in his mind, and being brash and righteous is his best coping mechanism.

 _Besides,_ he reminds himself as he tries to ignore the light, beautiful scent of her soap, _his Lordship is_ _ **wrong.**_

" -elieve in your 'garden of remembrance," she's explaining. "In a town, maybe. But the Yorkshire scenery is our 'garden of remembrance.' I'd prefer to see a memorial at the center of town, at the heart of village life, so that we'd pass it on the way to church or the shoppe and give a thought to the boys who fell."

It's almost exactly what his Lordship had said, and it takes the butler aback.

"You surprise me, Mrs. Hughes. I was disappointed in his Lordship, but I'm more disappointed in you."

He regrets the words as soon as they're on his tongue, but there's no pulling them back in. He realizes how harsh they are as they're coming out, and he sees the effect in her deep, beautiful eyes when she replies.

"Every relationship has its ups and downs."

She's upset, and he remembers again how only last night, just a few feet away from where they currently stand, he could feel her lips softly touching his own.

As he watches her go, Mr. Carson wonders if he's most disappointed in Mrs. Hughes not because she agrees with the idea of a town memorial, but rather because he wants so badly for her to agree with _him_ no matter what the circumstance. It's a petulant, childish way to feel, and yet there it is.

He realizes it's foolish. Mrs. Hughes knows her own mind, and she's no doubt spoken with a fair few more townsfolk than he has … or has at least heard more chatter, as she's in town more than he is.

Which brings him back to his original thought on the whole committee: _Am I just a pawn in their game?_

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Mrs. Hughes can't even believe she's _asking_ about the blasted memorial again, but the hurt from the other day has been buried and she really must not ignore the topic any longer. She knows the sooner they're past the discomfort, the sooner they can get back to where they were before it.

"I meant to ask how you got on with it?"

She's pouring their tea, and he thinks how _domestic_ that feels all of a sudden ... how much he wishes they were sequestered away in a cottage and not in an office.

"Oh. It's going to be in the village."

She looks at him and tries not to smile too broadly. "I only hope you're not too upset."

"I merely wanted to be convinced. My walk in the village convinced me. And … there's a bonus."

"Oh? What's that?"

She's smiling beautifully now, making him wonder how there could ever have been a day when he'd thought he could live without that smile in his life.

"It puts us back in agreement, Mrs. Hughes. I'm not comfortable when you and I are not in agreement."

She laughs, a bit nervously he thinks. "You're very flattering. When you talk like that, you make me want to check the looking glass to see that my hair's tidy."

"Get away with you."

"No, I mean it." She feels herself blush and has to back away from him just a bit. It certainly wouldn't do to have another kiss in one of their offices; if she's sure of anything, it's that.

 _Not yet._

But she's saved from the decision by the arrival of Sergeant Willis, who sits and accepts the cup of tea Mr. Carson offers … the tea Mrs. Hughes now pours into the cup that would have been _hers_ had she and the butler not been so busy flirting that she forgot to pour her own cup.

The Sergeant is talking about a witness to Mr. Green's death, and she leaves before she says something she'd regret. She's glad Mr. Carson is dealing with it, however. Sgt. Willis would never question _his_ motives in answering, but if suspicion were to fall on the Bateses, then Mrs. Hughes isn't sure she'd be able to hide the truth.

The next few days bring little change. As if by unspoken plan, Mr. Carson is acting admirably as a butler who has no idea what sort of horror Mr. Green committed under the Abbey's roof. He even goes so far as to ask Mrs. Hughes if she remembers anything out of the ordinary when Mr. Green was staying there, his open door and the parade of people up and down the corridor providing ample opportunity to spread the word amongst anyone who cares to hear that Mr. Green's visit involved nothing more than a guest valet with a bit of a fondness for fast card games.

But Mrs. Patmore has received a letter from her sister, and has relayed its contents and a rather unique request to Mrs. Hughes, who now turns that conversation over and over in her brain on an endless loop, trying to see a way out of it that will leave her two best friends on speaking terms when all is said and done.

" _Everyone knows you can twist 'im around your little finger."_

" _Then everyone is_ _ **wrong.**_ _"_

 _Which,_ Mrs. Hughes thinks sadly, _was a perfectly accurate assessment of her abilities to change Mr. Carson's mind._

" _Add the name of a_ _ **coward**_ _to our memorial? Are you quite well?"_

She knows he's a creature of tradition, and that he has strict standards to uphold - both in real life and in his own head. Her only regret is that his desire to remain on her side has evidently not extended to Mrs. Patmore's request. Nevertheless, he's keeping his counsel beautifully about the whole situation with Mr. Green, so she supposes she cannot complain, for if there is anyone in the household that Mrs. Hughes trusts not to discuss anything distasteful or uncomfortable, it's Mr. Carson.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Sunday evening finds the butler seated at his desk, staring at the wall as he ponders the day he went to the village with Lord Grantham, and the exchange between Lord Grantham and Mrs. Elcot. Mr. Carson would have been hard-pressed to come up with the woman's name, but his Lordship had no trouble whatsoever. The butler supposes it has to do with the war and with remembering the families of all of the soldiers from Downton who had fallen.

The thing is, it's not that Lord Grantham knew the woman's name that bothers Mr. Carson; rather, it's the fact that the woman and her son both seem to _like_ Lord Grantham a great deal. Not that Mr. Carson thinks him _un_ likeable at all, but the mere fact that they were all so at ease with one another spoke volumes to the butler. It was a testament to how well-regarded Lord Grantham is by all of the township's residents. They trust him, and judging by this particular experience, they don't seem to mind sharing their personal stories with him, either.

This kind of thinking only adds fuel to the fires of his suspicions, for why would the committee insist on Mr. Carson being their leader if Lord Grantham is thought of so highly by everyone? It simply makes no sense.

He hears the housekeeper's footsteps before her knock.

"Come in," he calls prematurely.

She enters to find him with a smirk on his face, but the crease in his forehead does not go unnoticed.

"Something has you amused."

"Just trying to stay a step ahead of you, Mrs. Hughes," he teases. "I heard your footsteps approaching."

"And did that have you on edge?"

His face melts into a soft, sweet expression of love tinged with sadness. "No," he whispers. "Far from it."

She sets down the tea tray she's brought in and pours for them both, placing his on the side table by the stove as he comes out from behind the desk to join her.

They sit in relative silence for a few moments, the only sounds in the room being their gentle sipping of the hot tea and the soft clink of cup against saucer.

"What really changed your mind, Mr. Carson?" she asks suddenly. "About the location of the memorial, I mean. It's not like you to give in on something you feel so strongly about."

And the unspoken question lies out in the open: _Why that decision but not the one for Mrs. Patmore's nephew?_

"I know it's not," he says, his hand atop his knee as he drums his fingers on it. "But, as I said before, I merely wished to be convinced."

"I'd like to know what it was that could convince _you_ of something so quickly."

"It was a woman, Mrs. Hughes," he says, and he watches her nearly choke on her tea as she misinterprets his words. "Not like that," he amends.

"And I presume that _I_ am not the woman in question?"

"No." He smiles, his eyebrows raised, and she feels her face warm. "His Lordship and I were in the village, and we came upon a Mrs. Elcot and her son, Robbie."

"Ah." She understands instantly. "Of course; Robbie always stops by the cemetery to leave a kind word for his Da when they're in town."

"Quite right. And so while it's true that I didn't see the center of the village as an appropriate place for the memorial, I also needed to consider that I am fortunate that I have no grave to visit, no son or … or nephew that was lost."

"And it would be quite difficult to travel to where the cricket green currently sits in order to have those moments," she adds quietly, "not to mention the time and expense of changing it all over."

"Precisely. And, so you see, I was convinced."

She looks up to find him staring intently at her, and for a moment she's lost in his eyes. She sees the swirling colors of his irises - browns, a tinge of grey, a fleck of green - and she smiles hesitantly at him, all of their recent disagreement vanishing.

Without looking away, he extends his hand out toward her and she takes it, squeezing his slightly-trembling fingers in her own and sighing happily as he returns the gesture, the warmth of his hand comforting.

 _Steadying,_ she thinks, and she's grateful she closed the door behind her when she arrived.

She feels his thumb brush over the top of her hand and it thrills her.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and she nods her understanding.

 _We truly are in sync about most things,_ she reasons.

She supposes they'll work out the rest in time.


	23. Hold on to Me

**A/N: I hope no one minds, but I really had to get this story moving a bit closer toward Christmas.**

 **That said, this chapter just sort of happened. The second half of this is set in a somewhat-common-for-me way, but so be it. (I'm also aware that my tenses might be messed up somewhere, and I apologize.)**

 **Thanks to everyone once again for all of your lovely reviews - I thoroughly appreciate each and every one.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Hold on to me as we go**_

 _ **As we roll down this unfamiliar road**_

 _ **And although this wave is stringing us along**_

 _ **Just know you're not alone**_

 _ **'Cause I'm going to make this place your home.**_

* * *

" _Have you ever thought about your life in retirement?"_

Mrs. Hughes rolls over in her bed again, a glance at the clock telling her it's much too late for her to still be up. At the rate she's going, she'll be lucky to manage three hours' sleep before the six o'clock knock on the door.

" _Who says I'll live to retire?"_

She wonders what on earth she was thinking that day. It had been a foolish answer, really, and she'd seen both confusion and a bit of amusement on his face when she'd delivered it. She'd had to walk away, in fact, to avoid getting roped into an awkward conversation.

But the feel of his lips on hers the night of the fire … that memory won't leave her alone, either. That night when everything had been so wrong with everyone else in the house but had felt so _right_ to her.

She knows now that it changed something for him as well. He's referred to that night only once so far, a brief sentence buried in another conversation, but she'd instantly known what he meant ...

" _Come now, Mr. Carson. I thought you were going to die in harness. Have you reconsidered?"_

" _Perhaps I_ _ **have**_ _changed my mind, Mrs. Patmore. Important events change people, don't they?"_

" _Well, we've certainly had quite a few of those. But do you feel they've changed you?"_

" _Well, let's just say that I feel my life has been_ _ **altered**_ _a bit since the fire."_

Mrs. Hughes had nearly choked on her tea, and the cook had completely missed the twitch at the corner of the woman's mouth when Mr. Carson had been speaking.

" _I daresay all of our lives have been changed, at that,"_ Mrs. Patmore had mused, blissfully unaware of her friends' discomfort.

Mrs. Hughes had hazarded a glance in the butler's direction and had found him resolutely stabbing at his piece of lemon torte with his fork; another glance at Mrs. Patmore would have been dangerous, though, and so she'd turned her attentions back to her tea.

Giving up on any chance of sleep, she gets up and tosses more wood onto her fire, puffing a bit of air from the bellows to get it going good and strong. The night is frigid, and she can see a glimmer of ice covering the outside of her window, and she sees her breath escape her lips in a faint mist.

She grasps the mantle to steady herself as she stands up, and the photograph that sits upon it gives her pause. It's a picture of her parents, standing by the fence in front of their home in Argyll, her Mam laughing and her Da looking upon his wife with unbridled love and joy. She remembers the day it was taken … she had been holding Becky still over by the tall oak tree, and it had been Becky's squeal that had made Mam laugh at just the right time. She remembers the photographer's annoyance, and her Da's reassurance that the man would be paid regardless.

 _Becky. You_ _ **must**_ _tell him about Becky._

Guilt and shame flare in Mrs. Hughes's chest as she thinks of her sister, of how Becky spends her days tucked away in a home on the other side of the country while Mrs. Hughes remains here inside the stately Abbey - working her fingers until they ache some days, to be sure, but living a life that's a far sight more enjoyable than the one that Becky has.

She doesn't feel shame about the decision she'd made all those years ago, because she knows it was necessary to keep them both out of the poorhouse. What she _does_ feel shame about is having kept Becky hidden for so long, especially from Mr. Carson. It makes her feel like a hypocrite, having pulled secrets from him about Alice and Grigg, stories about his family and how he grew up alone, and tales of his life on the stage. He's given her everything, and she's given him precious little personal information about herself in return. It's how she's lived her life, always keeping her own past hidden in shadows while delving into the secrets of others, holding them all close to her heart until she convinced herself that it was all the same in the end, that all secrets mattered equally.

 _But they don't. Not now._

From the very moment when Mr. Carson had posed the question, she'd known the time would come when she'd have to say something … when she'd have to share her secret, explain her shame.

" _Do you think we should, um … invest in a property together?"_

As she dons her robe and ties it about her waist, she smiles. It's a whisper of the smile that had shone from her face on that evening when Mr. Carson had changed everything, tipping the scales in his favor, when she'd heard just underneath his _spoken_ words the actual ones that he'd been trying to desperately to convey …

 _Do you think we should, um … invest in a_ _ **life**_ _together?_

Any idea of sleep now is laughable and so the housekeeper slides her feet into her slippers and pads on down to the kitchen to heat some milk. It's a sure-fire trick from her days as a farm girl to calm her mind; if she's lucky, it'll soothe her just enough that she can fall asleep for what little time she has left before the new day truly begins.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

She's just pouring the last of the milk into her cup when she hears a heavy tread on the steps and her heart leaps into her throat.

 _Oh, surely not …_

"Oh!" Mr. Carson stops short at the sight of the housekeeper before him in the kitchen, his exclamation startling her despite her forewarning that he was about to round the bend.

She recovers first, however.

"I thought I wasn't frightening, Mr. Carson." She can't help but tease him, and she smiles warmly.

"That's not precisely what I said," he replies, brow furrowed. _"Any_ of those times."

"Milk?"

"I'm sorry?"

"To help you sleep, Mr. Carson," she clarifies. "I do presume that is why you're here at this God-awful hour."

"Ah, well, yes," he says haltingly. "Couldn't sleep."

 _Good grief, man, can you even form a sensible sentence?_

"I gathered." She adds two dashes of cinnamon to the milk, stirs it, and pushes the cup toward him. "Here, take this one."

"But that was yours," he tries, but she's already waving to shush him. He watches as she adds a second helping of milk to the small pot on the stovetop. "Fine, if you insist."

He sips the hot milk gingerly and hums his approval.

"That's quite nice," he murmurs, taking another tentative sip. "It makes me feel like a boy again, sitting in my Mum's kitchen."

She's not giving a smart reply to _that,_ even though one is on the tip of her tongue.

"My Mam always prepared some when I couldn't sleep," she says instead, with a small smile and a faraway look about her.

Mr. Carson looks up, unable to take his eyes off her profile as she meanders through whatever memories she's stumbled upon, and he's startled when she eventually speaks again.

"I usually just have a wee dram now," she laughs.

Mr. Carson's eyes grow wide with amusement, his bushy eyebrows aloft. "Are you holding out on me, Mrs. Hughes?"

Her milk is scalded now, and she reaches to pull the pot off the heat and pours the milk into her own cup.

"I daresay that if I'd known I'd have an intruder padding downstairs to join me, I may have planned this little soiree a bit better," she laughs.

"And am I intruding?" He's sure she's joking, and yet it occurs to him now that she may have been quite content to sit in peace. Goodness knows they get so little of it in this house, with all the comings and goings of those upstairs and down.

She shakes her head. "No, Mr. Carson, you're not." She takes up her cup and nods towards the servants' hall. "Let's sit, shall we?"

He follows her and places his cup on the table before pulling out her chair.

"Thank you." She smiles demurely, her voice like an ethereal whisper in the dead of night.

He blushes a bit as he takes his own seat, aware for the first time that they're both clad in pajamas. He's not embarrassed by that, per se, but his eyes are taking in her past-midnight appearance: plaited hair, somewhat-familiar-to-him robe, relaxed countenance. He notices the loose wisps of hair that are framing her face, strands of silver and auburn that are shining in the low light of the room, and he wonders if his own hair is a fright from his own tossing and -

"Mr. Carson?"

It's a forced whisper, but she needs to know why he's staring at her so intently.

He clears his throat. "Forgive me, Mrs. Hughes," he says gruffly, taking a rather large sip of the milk. "Perhaps the milk is working. I'm afraid I'm poor company this evening. Well … this _morning."_

"You're not," she insists. "But I'm glad you feel you may be able to catch a bit of sleep."

"What about you? What's got you up so late, hm? That's not like you."

 _Oh, come on, Charles. You don't actually_ _ **know**_ _that,_ he scolds himself.

"What I mean is, I don't recall you mentioning any difficulty sleeping before."

"I know what you mean, Mr. Carson. And it happens on occasion, but we're usually so dead on our feet by the end of the day, aren't we?" She sips at the milk again, draining her cup. "I'm afraid I just have a bit on my mind."

"Anything you care to discuss?"

The smile she gives him is worth every bit of the tossing and turning and agonizing that have kept his sleep at bay tonight, and he returns it in kind, pouring something he hopes passes for love into his deep gaze.

"Eventually, yes," she says, somewhat surprising him. "I just need to work it out in my head first."

"Well, don't take too long," he cautions. "It won't do to be up this late _every_ night."

"Oh, I don't know," she muses, feeling a deep flush creep up her neck at the thoughts his words have sparked. "This has worked out rather well, don't you think?"

He smirks as he sees her cheeks turn pink, and he tilts his head in agreement.

They don't speak as they make their way back to the kitchen. She's silently washing the pot and cups and handing them to him to dry.

He puts the cups in their proper spot, but then he hears her laugh as she sees him standing in the middle of the kitchen without a clue as to where the pot came from.

"Give it here," she says, holding out her hand for it.

He passes it over, brushing her fingers with his as he does so, a challenge in his eyes that she's almost afraid to accept …

 _Not tonight, at any rate._

She hangs the pot on its hook with a flourish, and his chuckle rumbles in his chest.

They walk side by side back up to the attics, and he once again bids her farewell. He thinks he's actually grateful for the door now, for this formal symbol of separation that the butler inside of him will respect at all costs.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes," he whispers.

"Good night, Mr. Carson," she replies, breathless. "Sweet dreams."

"And you as well."

 _By the New Year,_ he promises himself as he watches her close the door and lock it.

He makes his way back to his room, closing his door behind him before walking over to his nightstand, pulling open the drawer, and withdrawing a small pouch.

Sitting on the bed, the butler tips the contents of the pouch into his hand, the small, golden band glittering in the light from the fire. He imagines it on her hand, the light from the small hearth in their home catching on the metal just so and making it sparkle, a light which could be reflected in her own eyes as he leans in to kiss her …

 _Stop._

He _must_ stop, and he knows it. Mrs. Hughes deserves much better than a man who sees her standing in the kitchen and can barely keep himself from placing his hands on her hips and a kiss to her temple … for now, anyhow. She deserves nothing but the utmost respect; despite how _right_ it had felt to steal those precious moments with her after the fire, he must ensure that nothing of that sort happens again unless they have a proper engagement.

He's decided on the house; he just needs to convince her. He knows she's holding back and he's unsure why, but he'll go and see her tomorrow night - or the next, perhaps - and state his case for the Brouncker Road property. It's clearly the nicest of the ones he's considered, and he thinks it could fetch a tidy sum if they hire someone to run it while they're still working … even after they've ( _God willing,_ he thinks) moved into a small cottage of their own on the Downton estate.

He twirls the ring in his fingers and tilts it to see the inscription, put there by his Da so many years ago.

 _Forever_

Mr. Carson palms the ring and cups his hand to slide it back into its pouch. He draws the strings closed and places it back in the drawer, giving himself one determined, decisive nod before reaching to turn off the lamp.

 _Definitely by the New Year … if not before. I just need to find a way to_ _ **ask.**_

* * *

 **I'd love a review if you're so inclined. x**

 **The plan is to progress from here through S6 Ep 3 over the next week or two, and then to update sporadically when I can while I'm working on my NaNoWriMo. This story will continue through the series finale and then there will be an "S7" type of epilogue. (For those not following me on tumblr, the NaNo writing will be a supplemental fic to my "Music of the Heart"/"Music of Our Lives" series, and it'll be published here in December.** )


	24. Looking Ahead

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing everything so faithfully. It's truly appreciated. Wasn't going to post this today, but "we must always travel in hope." I love that when I feel like my world is falling apart, this fandom makes me feel a bit less sad. So shout-out to all of you awesome people.**

 **To the guest reviewer who asked about the lack of bed sharing in Ch 18 - I never did say it would appear in** _ **that**_ **chapter, just that it would appear by the end of the fic. And it will - at the honeymoon, which should be in another three chapters. :) I'd have replied personally but we can't reply to guests.**

 **xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

" _ **When she is quiet, there is a reason.**_

 _ **She is sorting through all the chaos in her head …**_

 _ **and all the madness in her heart."**_

 _ **~LLK**_

* * *

The sun shines brilliantly in the sky, a perfect foil to the sadness felt by all in the Abbey on this day. Anna has been taken away, locked up for a crime that no one believes she could have committed, and a deluge of memories is threatening to drown half of those living in the house, both upstairs and down; memories of how things used to be ... memories of Mr. Crawley, of William … of Archie.

Mrs. Hughes sits proudly beneath her grief, with Mrs. Patmore just beside her. The housekeeper can feel the other woman's upset pouring off of her, but she's got almost nothing left in reserve with which to address it. A kind, understanding smile and a squeeze of the hand earlier this morning were what she had to offer, and Mrs. Patmore's understanding nod said that yes, it was enough.

The housekeeper will be glad when this memorial business is behind them, frankly. It seems to have Mr. Carson turned a bit upside down, and she needs him to be steady now, to be strong and sure and _reassuring_ with everything else they're facing. He'd been the last person of the staff to even _suspect_ that the police had an actual reason to come for Anna. All this time, all the visits and the questioning and the interruptions, and he'd simply been thinking they suspected Bates. Bates … who claimed not to have been at the scene of Mr. Green's death, which Mr. Carson believed wholeheartedly simply because the man's innocence had been questioned, tried, and proven true the last time.

She wondered at one point if he'd even _forgotten_ what happened to Anna, but a quick word in his pantry assured her he hadn't. He just …

 _Bless him,_ she thinks now, watching him stand proud before the villagers and family. _He simply didn't have it in him to think the worst … to believe in the lie._

She knows it's a lie. She _has_ to believe that, because she refuses to believe that Anna would ever have done anything so atrocious.

And now here they sit, at this ceremony for others who have fallen. She thinks that, perhaps, this is similar. She looks around at those gathered - injured soldiers seated beside widows and fatherless children - and understands that they, too, know what it's like when something so unfair comes knocking at the door, when lives are touched by the inexplicable and everyone feels powerless to change it.

She feels Mr. Carson's eyes upon her and looks over, past the memorial to where he stands. His gaze is boring into her, a bit of concern evident just underneath his solemn expression, and she gives him the slightest inclination of her head.

 _Yes,_ she says. _We're alright. For now._

His eyes remain on her for one moment more, just enough to reassure himself before moving on.

They're preparing to disperse when Lord Grantham calls their attention once more, and Mrs. Hughes feels a slight flicker of hope.

 _No,_ she thinks. _Surely not._

But just as she's thinking it, he's saying the words; she can feel Mrs. Patmore beginning to tremble beside her.

" … wasn't local to Downton and so his name does not appear on the memorial, but his memory is cherished by some here, and so it seems right to us to mark his passing."

She watches as his Lordship extends his hand toward where they're seated.

"Mrs. Patmore …"

No one knows quite what to expect, but Mrs. Hughes manages to meet Mr. Carson's eyes once again as they approach one another. She sees all his regret at having refused Mrs. Patmore's request so adamantly before, and his acknowledgement that he was perhaps wrong to have done so.

"I can hardly believe it," she whispers as they're walking over.

"It was his Lordship's idea," comes the quiet reply. "For what it's worth, I think it was the right decision."

They watch as the plaque is unveiled, as Lord Grantham acknowledges Archie, as Mrs. Patmore's tears come at last … at how it's right that Daisy is by her side, supporting her, along with Mr. Mason.

As they turn away, leaving Mrs. Patmore a moment alone before walking back to the Abbey, Mrs. Hughes can't help but see a bit of irony in the entire situation. Mr. Carson has long felt that he was perhaps being used as a pawn by the committee to fight against Lord Grantham, to represent the village not as a Lord, but as 'one of them,' a commoner, one who would fight for their wishes and desires. And yet, here they stand, before a memorial erected in the center of the town and a plaque to honor the family member of their cook … both the original ideas not of Mr. Carson, but of Lord Grantham. And yet if you asked any one of them who live here, none would ever say that either the plaque or the memorial had been the wrong decisions.

 _Perhaps they didn't quite have the measure of either man, even after all these years ..._

She's wondered for awhile now what the family would think of the idea of their butler and housekeeper walking out, and she feels now that her opinion has shifted on that a bit. She'd thought that Lord Grantham would be resistant to the change, resistant to how it would look amongst their peers, in circles where that type of thing isn't allowed because butlers and housekeepers are married to their jobs and not to people. She thinks now that she was very, very wrong … that in decades of working for the Grantham family, she has evidently misjudged the man who presides over it.

Their steps bring them closer to the Abbey, and she recalls all the times Lord Grantham has fought for the underdog: opening his library to the Socialist chauffeur ( _but not his heart … until later_ ), opening his home to wounded soldiers, standing up for a butler who felt shame at a past long-since buried, and now for Mrs. Patmore - not once, but twice doing right by her.

She remembers how he came below stairs on the day of Mr. Bates's arrival to greet him, not as an employee but as an old friend, and how shocked they'd all been even _then._ And she thinks of how hard he fought to get Mr. Bates released from prison, and how hard he's fighting now to have Anna released as well.

She's vaguely aware that Mr. Carson has not said a word to her the entire walk back, that he's keenly attuned to her emotional state and quite likely afraid to make her control over it snap. It's more than she usually does for him, pushing and prodding as she's often wont to do, and she's grateful for it.

He's not the same man he once was, but she supposes she's not the same woman, either.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Mr. Carson can feel the change in Mrs. Hughes as they're walking, a coming to terms with things in her mind, he supposes. She's clearly been working through something, and when she addresses him, it surprises him.

"It was a nice presentation today, Mr. Carson. You spoke well."

"Ah, well … reading was all. Nothing off the cuff, so to speak. And it was important to me. I'm glad to see it resolved, and rather proud of the memorial … and, before you ask, of the plaque as well. While I don't see how Archie's name could have been included on the town memorial, it seems to all have worked out for the best."

"That family's sacrifice is no less than any other," she reminds him, and he hums his agreement.

He slows his steps, and he knows she can see his question coming; he wonders if there's ever been a time when he's _truly_ managed to surprise her, and finds he can only think of one …

 _Thus far,_ he hopes.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Poor Mr. Bates," she replies, shaking her head in lingering disbelief. "They locked him up when he was innocent; why shouldn't they do the same with his wife?"

"Oh, I have faith in British justice. Mr. Bates was released in the end."

"After he'd served time. Sadness seems to shadow them both … and in their wake it shadows us."

Her voice breaks, and his heart nearly follows, his reply kind and soft.

"Come, Mrs. Hughes, this isn't like you. Take courage for their sake. We must always travel in hope."

She looks up at him, tears held at bay, and manages a smile.

They complete the walk back in silence, his thoughts interrupted only by the feel of her arm bumping his on occasion as they walk a bit more closely than usual, each touch causing him to look down at her and see her small smile yet again, returned by a smirk of his own when he realizes that her closer presence is no accident at all.

 _Thank you,_ her smiles say, and he returns them in kind.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Mr. Carson catches Mrs. Hughes in the servants' corridor, a pressing need weighing upon him to just _see_ her for a few moments and to hear her voice. They discuss Lady Mary, his horror at her having visited the prison to see Anna, and Mrs. Hughes once again manages to disagree with him in a way most becoming, indeed. He knew she'd have a different view, and while he doesn't want the press poking around in the family's affairs, he _does_ concede that she's right - it would be a benefit, indeed, for Lady Mary's reputation to be seen as extending caring and benevolence toward her maid.

Her soft eyes are enough to get him through the rest of the day, enough to keep his excitement from bubbling over. He's narrowed down their properties to four, and he desperately wants her opinion. He knows she'll point out things he'd not thought of - things like how much sunlight windows let in during the day and how certain rooms, or how well furniture will fit in the rooms. She'll see in her mind's eye the colors, the finished product, while he'll see only the improvements needed.

The houses he's carefully selected and placed in the folder are the ones certain to bring the best profit. What he'll not tell her - not yet - is that they're the ones he can see them living in themselves. It was never his dream to run a bed and breakfast, not alone … but with her by his side, he feels quite differently, indeed.

He sees hesitation in her eyes, though, when they finally manage to sit down for a bit. He's confident as he slides the folder over to her, tapping on his favorite, but he sees it clear as day. Something seems to be holding her back, although he can't for the life of him figure out what it is. He was so sure she'd be keen on the idea of putting more money by for retirement, of having a place that is _theirs_ even though it's not their home ( _yet …_ ). For his part, he wants to show her that he's capable of planning well into the future, wants to show her that she can depend on him to move ahead with the times, wants to show her that he's able to see a life _after_ Downton, where he never was before. She's the reason for that, after all.

 _And surely she_ _ **knows**_ _that?_

He tries to convince her with a smile and a nod - yes, they'll see the properties while the family are away at Brancaster. It'll be a lovely day, he thinks, with a picnic hamper packed and a beautiful afternoon before them. They never have an opportunity to spend an entire day alone, and he's rather looking forward to it.

* * *

 _tbc ..._


	25. Learning How to Bend

**A/N: Okay, you patient, beautiful people.** **Thank you for continuing to leave the loveliness you put into my Inbox after each update. It is truly appreciated, and I love reading all your thoughts.**

 **Haven't put the timing in for the last many chapters, but this one is very self-explanatory. It picks up mid-way through the day when Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes are visiting potential investment properties.**

 **Cheers! xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 ** _We got a lot at stake_**

 ** _And in the end, you're still my friend …_**

 ** _We had to learn how to bend_**

 ** _Without the world caving in._**

 ** _I had to learn what I've got_**

 ** _And what I'm not_**

 ** _And who I am …_**

Mr. Carson reaches to refill her glass, and Mrs. Hughes smiles and nods her thanks as the gentle afternoon breeze blows against her neck, causing a tickle where a loose tendril of hair meets the side of her ear.

"And what of Brouncker Road?"

"Well, it's certainly well-situated," she muses. "It needs fewer repairs, and it could even house a family with a child for the longer term. That might even work out better than a bed and breakfast. You'd not have to employ anyone full-time to watch over the place if there aren't all sorts of guests traipsing in and out."

His brow wrinkles. "You mean _we_ wouldn't have to."

"Of course." She sets her glass down and reaches once again for her plate, then looks around at the park where they've chosen to have their lunch. "We're blessed with such a lovely day, Mr. Carson."

"We are." He's staring at her fondly, and she catches him out and blushes.

"I must thank you," she adds. "For suggesting that we make a day of it, I mean. It _is_ nice getting out of the house for a while."

"I couldn't agree more, Mrs. Hughes." He raises his glass. "To good company."

She smiles demurely before taking her glass and raising it toward his, clinking them softly.

"Indeed."

She can feel him continuing to watch her, and she wonders how long she can keep up the ruse. She'll never be able to go in with him on the purchase of _any_ property, and she cannot believe she's kept it from him this long.

She's so deep into it now that her initial shame - the shame of having hidden Becky away, both physically and figuratively - is one which no longer matters. No, now the shame will be in Mr. Carson knowing she hadn't trusted him with the knowledge of her sister's existence … despite how very far they seem to have come.

They finish their meal in relative silence, and she packs the basket up as he stands and stretches.

"How about a turn around the park before we head back?" he suggests. "We've got about an hour and a half before we need to catch the bus again."

 _Bless him._ "A very good idea, Mr. Carson."

Mrs. Hughes deftly steers the conversation around happy things as they walk: the children, the upcoming Christmas holiday and a book she has a mind to purchase for Daisy, and how well Mr. Molesley seems to be getting on. Mr. Carson offers an opinion on all of them, particularly the book, and hints that he's rather excited about the approaching holiday season. She sees a glimpse of boyish joy in him as he talks and she's glad of it, for there's been such precious little happiness surrounding them all lately.

He brushes her fingers with his at one point as they walk side-by-side, and her breath catches; before she can talk herself out of it, she reaches out to take his hand.

Sometimes she doesn't know what comes over her; here she is, having just spent the past few hours looking at homes that are all part of some elaborate plan that she's allowed Mr. Carson to weave - one she has every intention of breaking apart, and soon - and yet she's holding his hand as though they're schoolyard sweethearts.

 _You need to end this, Elsie. And soon. It's not fair to the poor man … or to you._

But deep down, she fears that what she'll be ending will be the entirety of how they've become more than just their separate selves, and not just the plan to purchase a home. It won't be her intention, but she's quite aware that it won't be her choice to make, either; she'll place it all in his hands and see where he goes from there - and if he goes alone, or if he still wants her by his side.

Mr. Carson feels the shift in her emotions again, something he's noticed much more frequently as of late. Something is on her mind again, he's sure of it. He hopes it has nothing to do with the proposed investment, but he simply doesn't know.

She drops his hand as another couple approaches from the far end of the path ( _another couple,_ he chides himself, _as if_ _ **we**_ _are a 'couple'_ ), and the action only makes him more uneasy. Those people had no idea who he and Mrs. Hughes were; for all they knew, the housekeeper and butler could have been any other married couple holding hands in the park. Still, he can't fault her for her propriety.

They make it to the bus in plenty of time to choose a good seat and end up spending half the ride back in silence. Mrs. Hughes can tell something is on Mr. Carson's mind, but for once she's not sure what it is. She presumes that he's mentally walking through the homes again, determining which would be best for their investment, working on a timeline for that to happen, and quite likely taking into consideration the comments she made about each one.

She has no idea that he's walking through a proposal of a very different sort, indeed.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Days go by and they say nothing of the properties. Their afternoons and evenings have been filled with preparations for the holiday, with discussions and meetings about wine selections, menus, sorting new linens, and (on her part) the purchase of the staff gifts. It's a stark reminder of how few of them there are this year, but she doesn't begrudge the need for only one trip into Ripon instead of two, not with the weather getting colder and her bones disliking winter more and more every year.

It's about two weeks before she finds him knocking on her sitting room door, glasses and wine in one hand as he closes the door with the other.

"You'll like this," he says immediately, and begins discussing the wine.

And before she can squeeze a word in, he proposes putting an offer in on the house on Brouncker Road. It makes sense; they both preferred it when they visited them all, preferring its style and decent condition and the options it offers - and she can feel the discomfort becoming a physical thing, rumbling in her stomach and threatening to make her sick. She swallows her fear, her shame, and sets the wine aside, completely unable to drink anything at all.

He raises his glass. "To our future as property magnates."

And so she does it. He was so blissfully happy that she's ashamed to be even looking at him. Things had been going so well, so gloriously well, and now it's her task to let him down without somehow dashing his hopes among the coals, knowing full well by now through all of his looks, touches, words, and the hidden meaning behind each that the purchase of this house was to be but one step on a much more important path, one which he'd clearly laid out in his mind brick by precious brick.

She can barely manage to speak, but she must … must explain how it is she cannot really go in with him on anything, how it came to be that she's a pauper. She hears the words falling from her lips and sees how each affects him, how each one reaches out, strikes, hurting him in its turn.

 _Becky_. She skirts around the details, but she sees nothing less than she expected: he's absolutely _stunned._ She knows his shock isn't regarding Becky's physical infirmity and her living in a residential facility so much as the fact that she simply hadn't trusted him with this most intimate part of her life … not until the need to share it became dire; her shame, magnified by the sadness in his big, beautiful eyes.

And a knock on the door. Always, _always_ a knock on the door. Interrupted again, but for good reason, she supposes.

For once, she's glad of it.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Up in his room, Mr. Carson slides the ring out of its home once again, the heat of his palm colliding with the coldness of the metal which has been tucked away in his drawer.

 _"There's no place for me in the project."_

He picks the ring up by looping it on his pinkie finger and reassures himself that it is quite likely the correct size. He's spent a good amount of time looking at and contemplating the size of her hands; once, when their hands had been laid side-by-side on his desk as she'd looked over his shoulder at his ledger, he'd noticed that her ring finger was nearly the width of his pinkie, but not quite, and he had filed that away in his memory.

It's no matter; he'll visit the jeweler if necessary.

 _Her fingers were trembling tonight, though,_ he thinks. _Along with her voice._

When they'd first set out on this 'buying of a property' venture, he'd suspected that she'd known a proposal of some sort was coming. But lately she's seemed a bit more distant. He wasn't sure why until tonight, but now he knows.

Mrs. Hughes is a proud woman, and he values that about her more than most of her other attributes, but to see her have to shatter that pride before him by admitting that no, she couldn't invest with him ... hearing her admit the fact that she had to refuse because of what he considered to be a selfless, lifelong commitment to an ailing sister - one she's clearly felt the need to hide from all in this house - well, that simply broke his heart.

He'll have to learn how to skirt around that, though, because if she feels that he's doing anything out of pity from this point forward …

 _She won't tolerate_ _ **that**_ _at all. Nor should she._

As he spins the ring around his fingertip, he allows his memory to travel back over the past few years … her interference with Grigg, her illness, _his_ illnesses, made better by her caring.

 _No,_ he decides. Pity has never been a factor in their relationship. A desire to help, a wish to see the other happy or at peace or in good health, yes. A caring that has gone far beyond that of a mere friend … all of those things, _yes._

But not pity.

He's decided, then. He'll head into town to meet with the solicitor. He'd spoken the truth earlier, to her: the price of the house is well within his means.

The supreme irony of the entire situation is astounding: she was never able to go in on the investment with him and she knew it, but she went along with it anyhow; he never _needed_ her financial contribution, but he pretended to need it anyhow.

He'd previously thought the only way she'd accept him was if they worked together on this investment, thought he had to show her through some means or other that he values her as an equal and not as a weak woman for whom things need to be done. He'll have to take a different tack in his approach now, and convince her that while he's moved ahead on the purchase of the property, it wasn't the only way they could be together.

He'll have to present it to her as it is, plainly … He _loves_ her, and wants to spend the rest of his days by her side.

The ring is hot by the time he slides it back into its rightful place. And then, on second thought, he takes it out again and tucks it into his waistcoat pocket, hoping its constant presence will imbue a sense of strength in him, a way to have her with him as he makes his way through the purchase of a home, and that much different type of proposal.


	26. Round and Around We Go

**A/N: We are so almost there, folks. Next chapter after this is WEDDING DAY! Next two after that are WEDDING NIGHT!**

 **Many thanks to you all for the lovely notes of review. They are so very appreciated, each and every one.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

' _ **Round and around and around and around**_

 _ **We go,**_

 _ **Oh now, tell me now, tell me now, tell me now**_

 _ **You know ...**_

* * *

 _ **December 24, 1924**_

It's just as Lady Mary is about to sing; it's brilliant timing, because everyone will be watching her. They won't be missed at all.

 _Now?_ she thinks. _He wants to talk to me_ _ **now?**_ After all, far be it for Mr. Carson to want to miss _anything_ Lady Mary says or does.

Usually.

Without a word, she grabs two glasses of punch from the table as they pass by, figuring that if Charles Carson is missing a chance to hear Lady Mary sing, whatever is pressing on his mind must be very important, indeed.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

 _She's … refusing? Oh, wait … no. Oh, heavens, she doesn't **understand.**_

"But that's the point," he tells her.

He'd reach for one of her hands if they weren't both occupied with holding the glasses of punch, which remains as yet untasted given the gravity of their conversation.

"What is?"

He thinks he might just pass out. He takes a deep breath in, and then forges ahead.

"I _do_ want to be stuck with you." Pursing his lips, he stares directly into her eyes, willing her by some sort of divine intervention to read his mind.

He sees the second that she does.

And he's not offended her; she's clear about that.

She hands him the glass and - _Thank God,_ he thinks -they are definitely celebrating an engagement.

They're engaged. He's proposed, and she's accepted.

He can't believe this is happening.

 _She thought I'd never ask. Wait …_

"Never?" he murmurs.

She has no verbal reply, but he doesn't really expect one anyhow. He's not sure he could even have that conversation at the moment.

Her warm hand squeezes his arm again and rubs it a bit, and two tears he didn't even realize had formed slide slowly down his cheek; when she reaches up to wipe them away, he lets out a shaky sigh.

Before she knows what's happening, he reaches for her glass and sets it and his own on the side table.

He turns back and draws her into a gentle embrace, and another tear falls onto her hair as she nestles her head against his chest. When he feels her arms wrap tentatively around him in return, his heart flutters with joy.

"I do love you, you know," he says softly. He must be clear, needs to get that out now so that she knows precisely why he's proposed in the first place.

Her surprise lasts but a moment and she exhales slowly, relieved.

"I love you, too, Mr. Carson," she whispers back. "I think I have for a very, _very_ long time."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

 _ **February, 1926**_

Her bedroom is warmer now that she's got the fire going to an acceptable level. It's so bloody cold in the wintertime, February being particularly harsh, and Mrs. Hughes has decided that frugality be damned: she's not going to shiver her way through two more months of wintry hell. Besides, Lady Grantham has impressed upon Mrs. Hughes on multiple occasions that she is to ensure the staff remain warm during the frigid winter nights, and she clearly meant the elder staff as well.

Mrs. Hughes is pensive as she methodically folds her washing flannel and drapes it over the side of the small basin. Reaching for her armoire door, the alabaster skin of her arm flashes in the mirror.

She sighs.

She pulls her day dress from the cabinet and lays out on the bed. She's just taken it in again, her recent weight loss having necessitated one new dress and alterations to three others _and_ her favourite coat. She's healthy, though, and Dr. Clarkson has assured her that it's likely a sign she's been working hard. Plus, he added gently, she _is_ getting a bit older, and it's not uncommon to lose a bit of extra weight as one gets on.

Which brings her back to her predicament.

Mrs. Hughes realized only recently that she'd not at all considered the aspect of her physical body when she'd so willingly, breathlessly, accepted Mr. Carson's proposal. Truth be told, she'd been waiting for the proposal ever since the business with the properties began.

And of course, she knew she would say yes, knew she wanted - _wants,_ still - to be his wife.

 _But you didn't think that through, did you?_ she chides herself. She steps in front of the mirror and removes her dressing gown, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the room. She strips away her underclothing and stands completely nude before the mirror, after which she examines her body with a critical eye.

She starts with her hair, which is hardly an area of concern - long, still soft despite the silver liberally threading its way through. The current style she's using hides most of that, but she knows that her hair color won't be held against her.

Nor, probably, will her face. He sees it daily, she reckons, and a good bit of her neck, too. Wrinkles that haven't been hidden in ages and … well, that's not what has her worried so, either.

But then her eyes travel downward, and the despair begins to creep in once again.

She sees her body through the critical eye of one who has seen it blossom over time, one who had seen it at its peak when no one else was laying eyes on her at all, when she had breasts that were lovely and stayed put _without_ the use of a corset. If that weren't bad enough, one of them now bears a hideous scar, a daily reminder of what could have been.

Her eyes move down to her hips and abdomen, once fuller but now bearing the sagging and slightly-wrinkled skin marking her recent weight loss. Her legs are alright, she supposes, still toned, but the skin there, too, has lost a bit of the taut appearance it had even ten years ago.

 _In general,_ she thinks harshly, _decidedly_ _ **not**_ _what a husband likely dreams of in a wife._

She assumes he'll expect her to be trim and well-cared for - he'd be a fool not to notice her size, especially after having held her in his arms twice now, albeit briefly. And she supposes she is still fairly fit and knows she's quite healthy … but she bears no resemblance to the lithe, lovely women upstairs, nor the ones who come to visit dressed in furs and the latest fashion and who are likely just as lovely underneath it all.

 _Unless …_

 _Unless that's not at the type of marriage he wants._

The thought stops her dead in her tracks.

She reaches for the robe once again (not wishing to spend another moment contemplating her rather late-middle-aged appearance) as she runs through the past couple of years in her mind.

 _Two kisses, one rather recent,_ she tallies. _A bit of hand-holding, mostly initiated by me, and a comforting embrace when I was falling apart. There was the time in his pantry when I touched his shoulder, and many times he's offered me an arm because of the slippery walkway or roads to church._

 _In short,_ she sums up rather dejectedly, _except for the kisses - which were both rather chaste as I recall - nothing that would indicate he has_ _ **those**_ _sorts of expectations at all._

She can't believe she'd not thought that far along beforehand.

Despite the fire, her bed is freezing as she slips between the sheets. Hours are spent tossing and turning, wondering if Mr. Carson has expectations of this marriage that might be, in fact, very far-removed from her own.

 _Perhaps he just wants a marriage of convenience, one where two close friends can live together as companions, can share meals and books and glasses of wine by the fire without a whisper of scandal because, after all, they're husband and wife._

She's not sure if she's more relieved or saddened by that thought.

Sleep doesn't come easily that night, nor for the next several after that.

It's four days before Mrs. Patmore notices something is amiss, and another two days before she asks about it. By then Mrs. Hughes is at her wits' end. Mr. Carson wants to settle the date, but she's noticed he still has never addressed her by her first name, a sure sign that her suppositions are right: Charles Carson wants to spend the rest of his life with her, but pretty much in the ways in which they live right now.

She thinks.

"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong," Mrs. Patmore tells her.

"You'll say I'm being stupid," she replies sadly.

"Well, maybe you are."

 _Maybe I am,_ the housekeeper tells herself.

It's the most awkward conversation she's ever had, and she thought nothing could _ever_ be worse than the "please feel my breast and tell me if that's a lump" conversation, but this has most definitely normalized _that_ one.

"Live like … brother and sister, you mean?"

It seems so horrible when she hears it put that way. Somehow, when she'd had the thought herself, it had seemed a bit gentler.

It takes a bit of convincing, but Mrs. Patmore and she have come a long, long way since the days of fighting over the store cupboard key, and the woman finally agrees to take on the mission of finding out what, exactly, Mr. Carson expects from this marriage. It was mortifying, but Mrs. Hughes knows it's better to go in on everything with a clear plan, with no obstacles blocking the path that would start them off on a _very_ embarrassing beginning to their marriage.

 _ **March, 1926**_

"And how are plans for the wedding coming along?" Mrs. Patmore asks as she pours Mrs. Hughes a cup of tea. "I mean, now that you've sorted that _other_ bit," she adds with a smirk.

"Slowly, but we're getting there," the housekeeper sighs, ignoring the jab. "My head is pounding from it all, but it'll be worth it in the end."

"Yes, well, you've certainly taken your time getting here," the cook says kindly, reaching out and patting the back of Mrs. Hughes's hand, "and it's bound to be fraught with a few disagreements along the way. Weddings always are."

"I just want it to be _simple,"_ Mrs. Hughes sighs. "A wedding for _us,_ not for _them,"_ she adds, flicking her eyes upward.

"You mean you don't want them there?" Mrs. Patmore's confusion shows, and the housekeeper puts her to rights.

"No, no … of course they'd be invited. _Welcomed,_ definitely. But it's the style of the thing." She sips her tea, shaking her head a bit as she puts the cup back on the saucer.

"We're simple people, Mrs. Patmore. We're _downstairs._ We don't need a great breakfast party here at the Abbey. Who'd serve at it, for one thing? You all? Hardly." She smiles at her friend. "I want you to be a _guest_ at my wedding, not working at it."

"Well, I'm sure you'll sort it in the end," Mrs. Patmore replies.

"Oh, we _have_ sorted it,"Mrs. Hughes says with a roll of her eyes. "Lady Grantham just saw to that. Summoned me upstairs and asked that I explain what the problem was with the breakfast. I stated my case, and then she supported me – took my side against Lady Mary, even! It was … well, _odd."_

Mrs. Hughes had thought she might die on the spot when asked to state her case, but she'd done so with as much simplicity and grace as she could muster, and she had been buoyed a bit when Mr. Carson had quietly declared that he didn't mind the schoolhouse.

 _Didn't mind. Not an overwhelming endorsement but, then again, Mr. Carson is rarely overwhelming in his reaction to_ _ **anything**_ _upstairs._

Mrs. Patmore raises an eyebrow - _high_ \- as the sound of Mr. Carson's footsteps comes down the corridor.

"And on that note," Mrs. Hughes says hurriedly, pushing away her cup, "I must get back to my work. Thank you for the tea."

She's out the door like a shot, and Mr. Carson looks inquisitively at Mrs. Patmore, whose hands go up in the air in defense.

"Don't you try getting me involved in all this; it was _your_ fight, Mr. Carson," she chides him. "And I gather you've lost it."

"But …" he sputters, looking from the cook to the door through which his fiancée just walked, and back again. "How ...?"

Mrs. Patmore has her back to him and chuckles. "I think your bride just needed to vent some frustration."

"About _what?"_ He's so confused; they sorted it out just a half hour ago. He took her side, in front of half the family. He'd never _been_ as proud of his fiancée as he had been in that moment.

"Maybe you can go and soothe her, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Patmore answers with a chuckle. "After all, you've an agreement now … and the blessing of the family behind you."

She doesn't see the scarlet that creeps up his neck and over his jawline as he leaves the room.

He came downstairs intending to bury himself in work and forget about how the day had gone so far, but in the end it's not his pantry where he stops, but rather the housekeeper's sitting room. He gives the cursory knock and doesn't miss her soft sigh of defeat as he lets himself in.

She'd clearly not wanted company.

"I come in peace," he says instantly, closing the door behind him. His voice is soft, kind, and loving.

"I don't want to fight with you anymore. Not about this. Not about _anything."_

She bites her lip and steadies her breathing before turning in her chair to face him.

"I feel as though we've had a series of complete misunderstandings since Christmas Eve," she confides quietly. She turns her eyes downward toward her hands, which she's clenching and unclenching repeatedly in her lap.

Mr. Carson crosses the room and pulls a chair up in front of her, then leans forward and takes her hands in his own, soothing them by rubbing his thumbs gently over the backs of her knuckles.

"I agree," he says softly. "And while I do think it would have been appropriate to have our breakfast reception here, and that it was generous of the family to offer, I understand your point and I support it."

She smiles softly. "Thank you for that, Mr. Carson. Perhaps … well, perhaps we'll be alright in the end after all."

"I expect we'll be more than alright, Mrs. Hughes."

He says her name hesitantly, and her brow furrows.

"Why won't you call me 'Elsie?' I'm not upset by it, truly, but you must understand that it's given me cause to think that you'd rather things stay a bit … well, _formal,_ between us."

"Only until the wedding," he clarifies, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it softly. "I can't explain it, but it doesn't seem right to me. And even here, once we've crossed that threshold of marriage, I don't think I could ever use your given name - not when others are about. It would never come out; you'll always be _Mrs. Hughes_ in this place. At least to me."

"Well," she answers demurely, "I'll be _Mrs. Carson_ then."

His brilliant smile makes her smile in turn.

"You will at that."

She lifts his hands to her own lips and kisses his knuckles. "I suppose I can let you win _one_ argument," she chuckles.

"It'll be the only one, I suspect," he replies with a smile.

She looks up and meets his gaze with a playful smile.

"Perhaps."


	27. My Great Love, My Best Friend

**A/N: Welcome to the wedding chapters, the soundtrack of which comes from Barbra Streisand's album, "A Love Like Ours." Thanks to all for your patience in getting here. Nod within to mrpoohnminnie, whose head canon daydreamings made their way into the celebration ahead, and thanks to the lovely Hogwarts Duo for her ongoing help when I need it. xx**

* * *

 _ **With your tender touch**_

 _ **I felt all fear and sorrow**_

 _ **Slip away ...**_

 _ **I've dreamed of you**_

 _ **My great love**_

 _ **And my best friend.**_

* * *

It's not the knock on the door that wakes Mrs. Hughes that morning; no, she's been awake for hours, barely able to sleep a wink as she pondered all sorts of things about what the next week would bring.

Mr. Carson's short visit to her sitting room yesterday afternoon had given her a new glimpse into the heart of the man that was to be her husband. He'd come to remind her that they were not to see one another the night before the wedding; he was ever the stickler for tradition, her butler. And yet his entire sweet, shy demeanor as they'd spoken had provided a peek inside of the boyish aspect of his personality, that bit which rarely showed itself to anyone.

 _Except now,_ she tells herself, _I'll see it._

She'll see everything about him, she knows, and he'll be the same with her. It's so much more than she dreamed, so much more than sharing a name or a plan for retirement … it's _everything_ to her now.

"Are you nervous?" he'd asked her, while he'd been wringing his own nervousness out of his hands as he said the words.

"A little," she'd admitted.

And she _had_ been nervous then, to be sure. But the situation with Lady Grantham's coat had truly sent her reeling, first out of embarrassment and then out of something akin to gratitude mixed with a feeling of undeservedness. It's a fine coat, and Miss Baxter clearly worked like the devil to alter it in time. She smirks now as she lies in bed, as she hears the knock and her friends come through the doorway, knowing that the coat was yet another upstairs thing in the midst of their downstairs wedding.

 _But that's alright,_ she knows. _Because the wedding is still about_ _ **us,**_ _regardless of anything the family says or gives to us. The look in his eyes yesterday told me once and for all that that's true._

And Elsie Hughes finds that, after years of waiting, hoping, praying, teasing, hinting, and almost giving up, she simply cannot wait to be Charles Carson's wife.

 _Years. Years in the making and here we are … at last._

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Mr. Carson wakes slowly, with the remnants of a glorious dream still playing at the edges of his mind, teasing him about things to come as he spends the next several days away by the sea with Mrs. Hughes.

 _Mrs. Carson,_ he corrects himself instantly. _She'll be Mrs. Carson then._

His dreams lately have been woven of simple things, like watching her prepare his tea and the two of them fighting for space in the mirror as he fixes his necktie at the same time that she's pinning her hair. But they've also reflected more complex things, things he worries about, such as how he can assure she's comfortable that first time they share a bed … and every time afterward as well. It's strange to him that of all the aspects of marriage that exist, it's the one they'd have been _least_ likely to have discussed under any other circumstances which is the most sorted between them now.

He'd not lied when he said to Mrs. Patmore that it was an all-or-nothing marriage he had in mind. He does want to share every aspect of himself with Mrs. Hughes, wants to live in that oh-so-very-close way that a married couple lives, wants to love and honor and cherish her in mind _and_ with his body, as he'll vow in front of everyone to do today. For among all the other dreams are the ones peppered with images of falling asleep in her arms and waking with her in his, with her hair spread across his chest as he tilts his head to kiss her good morning.

That thought of sharing her bed would have been enough to send the old Charles Carson into an apoplectic fit of nerves, but as the sun rises on his wedding day he realizes he's found a _new_ man inside, a man whose first and foremost desire for the next several days involves sliding a ring onto his fiancée's hand and never, ever letting her go.

His feet hit the cold floor as he forces himself out of bed. He dresses in his grey morning suit and checks his valise once again to ensure that everything that needs to be packed is, in fact, inside. Sparing another moment to look around the room, he sighs, knowing that it's one of the last times he'll see the inside of the place. But he walks out and closes the door, knowing that by doing so he's opening the door to a much brighter, much _happier_ future.

He reaches into his waistcoat pocket one last time to feel the now-familiar, perfect circle contained within.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The ceremony is lovely, each word spoken by them truly resonating in the heart of the other. Mrs. Hughes subconsciously holds her breath as Mr. Carson slides the delicate ring onto her finger; its fit is perfect, as she'd suspected it would be. If anyone would correctly guess the ring size of his fiancée, she knew it would be Mr. Carson.

She exhales as they turn, now husband and wife, and can't help the smile that comes to her face as they make their way back down the aisle. She longs to reach for her husband's hand, but they'd agreed to keep things proper out of respect for the family; when he offers her his arm, though, before they pass through the doors, she takes it gratefully.

Yet despite their promise, Mr. Carson finds he can't help but turn to kiss his wife just outside the door; she responds with glee, and notes with warmth in her heart that the scene is met with nothing but applause and well wishes by all who are in attendance.

She refuses to relinquish her hold on his arm as they make their way to the school house, a crowd of celebrants surrounding them. There's no stopping by the roadside to steal another kiss, but she thinks that's just fine; there will be more than enough time for them later, Lord knows.

She feels a flutter in her chest at the thought, but something else is blossoming much further down in her abdomen as well … something that's been there since the fire, since that night when her lips first brushed against those of her husband. She'd felt a faint breath of his pass into her own mouth that night just before their lips had touched, and she knows now that it was that whisper of breath - that ethereal part of him - that had taken up residence inside of her, with something wonderful (and a bit risqué) blossoming from its firmly-planted roots ever since.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The party is in full swing after Mr. Carson's toast, which he's proud to have made it through without once shedding a tear or losing his train of thought. The icing on the proverbial cake had been the arrival of the Bransons, which even Mr. Carson admits had filled him with joy for multiple reasons, not the least of which was the look on his wife's face when she realized who'd walked in the door.

They've been meandering through the room, visiting their guests and thanking them for coming. Mr. Carson has felt his wife's eyes on him several times, only to look up and see her smiling sweetly at him from across the room. He longs to be by her side, but this isn't the time; the both of them know more than most that an event such as this only comes off flawlessly when everyone feels adequately attended to by the hosts and guests of honor.

As Mrs. Carson chats amicably with Lady Grantham, she feels a warm presence next to her; looking down, she sees Miss Sybbie smiling up shyly, and she manages to squat down next to the girl while still keeping her glass in her hand.

"What is it, Miss Sybbie?"

"I just wanted to say congratulations," the young girl whispers, carefully sounding out the last word. "I'm ever so happy we got home in time."

"Oh, thank you, love," she replies. "And believe me, I'm just as happy to see you both. Did you enjoy America?"

"A little," the girl says mysteriously, "but Papa was awfully sad. He's better now. Me, too."

Mrs. Carson pats Miss Sybbie's back, and is delightfully surprised when she receives a kiss to her cheek.

"I'll miss you when you're gone, Mrs. Carson. May I visit you?"

"I'll be back in my office in eight days. Can you count them while I'm gone?"

Sybbie nods happily. "Yes."

"Well, when you get to day number eight, you can come look for me. Perhaps I'll be able to convince Mrs. Patmore to stock our biscuit tin," she whispers.

"Oh, thank you!" Sybbie answers, glee shimmering in her eyes as she turns to find her cousins and get to the dancing that her Papa had promised her.

"Do you need a hand?" Lady Grantham asks with a chuckle, watching as Mrs. Carson stands up straight again. "Honestly, I forget how much older I am than they are until I find myself sitting on the floor."

"I'm quite alright, Milady," she laughs in reply. "But, yes, it's a stark reminder!"

"'Our biscuit tin?'" Lady Grantham asks with a smile. There's a fondness in her eyes that she knows her housekeeper can see, and a bit of a sadness, too.

"The same, Milady," she whispers. "When Lady Sybil died, I simply didn't have the heart to part with it."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that it's being put to good use again, Mrs. Hu- _Carson._ A whole new generation of young ladies eager for the advice and friendly voice of our beloved housekeeper."

Mrs. Carson feels a lump in her throat, one which she barely manages to swallow before replying.

"Indeed, Milady. And thank you for that."

She glances over Lady Grantham's shoulder as she feels her husband's eyes upon her.

 _Are you alright?_ his glance is asking, and she nods minutely.

 _I'm fine._

Her eyes stay locked on his for a few moments, just until she is aware that her distraction has drawn her employer's attention.

"Go on, then. He's had his eyes on you for the last hour. You've both danced with everyone here but one another. I'd say it's high time to remedy that before you need to be on your way."

She reaches for Mrs. Carson's punch glass, which the older woman hands over gratefully … something which likely never would have happened had this breakfast been taking place at the Abbey.

"Thank you, Milady. I believe I shall."

Lady Grantham watches as Mrs. Carson cuts through the guests rather quickly to make her way to her husband's side. She smiles as she sees the woman's face light up upon reaching him, upon feeling the butler's strong and steady hand land upon his wife's hip.

 _You've kept her waiting long enough, Carson,_ she muses. _It's high time you got on with it._

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

"Do you like the music?"

Mr. Carson twirls his wife around the dance floor, effortlessly weaving them around the other couples who've now joined them.

"It's lovely," she replies. "Although I find my attentions are rather focused elsewhere."

"Is that so?" he smirks, and he slides his hand up her back a bit more, relishing in the way it makes her eyes twinkle when he does so.

"It is," she affirms. "You see, there seems to be a very tall, very handsome, remarkable butler at this event. I find I'm having trouble paying attention to much else."

"Ah, I see. It's a pity that he's captured your attention so wholly, then."

Mrs. Carson backs slightly away from her husband and reaches up to touch his cheek with her fingertips.

"On the contrary," she whispers. "It's a most marvelous thing, indeed."

"Well, perhaps you'll have more marvelous days ahead of you."

"I'm counting on it," she says lightly, her face full of love.

He stops dancing at the close of the song and she places a hand on his shoulder and lifts herself up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

"I'm so very, very happy, my darling."

His sweet, soft smile is all the reply she needs.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Lord Grantham has arranged for a car to bring them to the station, and it's Mr. Bates who gently taps Mr. Carson on the shoulder to remind him of the time; it's an unnecessary gesture, for both Carsons have been counting down the minutes until they could leave the party and be alone together for the first time in days, but it's appreciated nevertheless.

As Mrs. Carson makes her way through the crowd by the door, thanking Mrs. Crawley once again for being part of the festivities, her husband watches her with a protective air. Never has he felt so in control of his life as he does in that moment, and he knows that it's because he's no longer relying on his own strength and fortitude to get him through the days ahead, but hers, too. They're joining not only their finances and names together today, but every other aspect of themselves as well. He knows that from now on, his trials will be hers, his joys will be hers; her difficulties will be taken on by him, and he'll celebrate her successes as well. Give and take, ebb and flow … the way they've always been together, the best of friends, but now somehow closer in a way that's much, _much_ more meaningful.

He feels her slip her hand into his and her touch pulls him from his musings.

"Ready, Mr. Carson?" she whispers, and he nods.

"Lead the way, my dear."

She squeezes his fingers and winks at him playfully.

"I always do."

* * *

 _ **Your reviews have been so lovely - I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Honeymoon is written and will publish in the next day or two, in two parts. Many thanks. x**_


	28. Treasured Moments

**A/N: This is part ONE of TWO for the wedding night. The second part posts tomorrow. Please leave a little review if you feel so inclined.**

 **I have done a wedding night before with "Shift." This one is different, and my ultimate goal was a balance of sweet and realistic in-character-ness. (Yeah, it's a word ...)**

 **xx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Wait...**_

 _ **When you're in love the way we are,**_

 _ **When every kiss and every touch,**_

 _ **And every night is like a dream come true**_

 _ **It's then you realize how small forever is,**_

 _ **As I now I do.**_

 _ **That's why I treasure all the moments of my life**_

 _ **With you.**_

* * *

 _ **May 16, 1925 ... Evening**_

The train comes to a stop, and she's startled out of her sleep by his soft voice in her ear.

"Mrs. Carson? We're here."

Her eyes open and she sees - quite closely - the weave of his coat, remarking at the same time that his hand is gently squeezing her forearm.

"Oh!" She realizes she'd fallen against his shoulder in her sleep, and she sits up and finds his eyes with hers.

"You've only just nodded off; you must be exhausted," he says.

"I'll be fine," she assures him, patting his hand before pulling her arm away.

They disembark and Mr. Carson arranges for a car to bring them to the hotel. Bags loaded, they climb into the back seat for the short ride.

"Mrs. Carson?" His voice is soft and inquisitive, and she smiles. "Are you alright?"

Drawing her lip underneath her teeth, she murmurs, "I quite forget you're speaking to _me_ when you say that."

"I thought I'd have trouble saying it, but it does appear to roll right off my tongue."

"I'm fine." She pats his hand where it rests on her knee. "I promise."

She's looking out the window at the ocean as they speed by, unable to stop likening it to how they're speeding toward a new _life_ together. She's a mixture of anxiety and joy tinged with fatigue, each trying to win out over the other as the wheels roll down the road.

They arrive and check into the hotel. It's quite a bit more posh than she was expecting, and he signs their names in the register as she examines the surroundings of the lobby: the gilded trim around the lift, the ornamental clock over the front desk, plush settees … It's overwhelming, and his hand at the small of her back centers her as he guides her toward the lift.

"Second floor," he says to the attendant.

"Of course, Sir."

They ride up in silence, not touching. When the doors open, she leads the way out but stops short in the corridor as she realizes she has no idea what the room number is. She follows him with a smirk, shaking her head at how strangely uncomfortable she is in this totally new situation. She's only ever stayed in an hotel once in her life, and it was so many years ago and _definitely_ not as nice as the one Mr. Carson has booked for their honeymoon.

 _Booked and paid for. By Charles. Perhaps Charlie …_ She'll have to ask him.

They make their way into the room, and each stops to take in the details: it's fairly large (likely due to it being a corner room), there is a rather spacious ensuite bath, the linens are all done in tones of gold and deep brown, and there's a large window overlooking the ocean … and a rather enormous bed just to their right.

She swallows convulsively, and his hand trembles.

"It's … um ...," she manages.

"I had hoped you'd like it." He's clearly wary, and she reaches to squeeze his hand in reassurance.

"Oh, it's lovely. Truly. Just a bit ... well, overwhelming, I think."

He turns and dips his head toward her, brushing her lips quickly with his before returning and lingering on them for a few more moments.

" _You_ are lovely," he whispers, brushing her cheek with the tip of his finger. "I am overwhelmed by _that._ The room? It's just detail."*

She blushes furiously … and, much to her embarrassment, has to stifle a yawn. But he just chuckles, and a knock on the door announces the arrival of their meager luggage. He takes the bags from the bellboy and tips him, then turns away to place the valises by the wardrobe.

"It's good that we had dinner on the train," he muses. "I'd not realized how late we'd be arriving."

She agrees, moving over to the window. "Do you mind if I open this a bit?"

"No, not at all. It's rather warm in here." He's not sure if it _really_ is or if he just feels that way, if the anticipation and forced closeness and the presence of the _bed_ are making him warmer than usual.

He'd not expected the bed to be so large, and he finds it rather intimidating.

She turns the window crank.

"It's stuck," she grunts, struggling to push it open. Before she knows it, he's directly behind her, reaching past her shoulder to give the window a hearty shove. It creaks open, quickly, and a gust of sea air blows in at them.

She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply - a cleansing breath of salty air, which clears her head and calms her. The sky is full of stars and the moon shines brightly, reflecting off the sea in brilliant shades of white.

"I love the sea," she murmurs, and she feels his hands on her shoulders, tugging her back gently; she complies, and finds herself resting back against his body before his arms wrap lightly around her in an easy embrace.

"I never used to, but I'll admit that you're making me quite fond of it," he says softly. He tilts his head and rests his cheek on her hair, and they remain like that for a few silent moments - the first peaceful ones they've had in days.

"We were going to unpack," she chuckles after a bit.

"Ah. Yes, we were." He doesn't let her go, and she laughs, turning in his arms and laying her hands on his chest.

"As lovely as this is, I wouldn't mind washing up after our trip," she admits as she looks up at him.

"Nor would I. Alright, then; you first. I'm going to go down for some wine, if that suits."

He backs away to fetch her suitcase, setting it on the rack so that she can open it.

Her face lights up and she nods. "That would be perfect, actually. Thank you." The wine, shared … a familiar comfort, a nightly ritual that will put them both at ease. She's thrilled that he thought of it.

He disappears with a smile, that boyish countenance that she had rarely seen over previous years but which she's seen so much in the past few days, and she wonders not for the first time if perhaps he's even happier than she'd imagined that they've finally, _finally,_ made it to this point.

She unbuckles her bag and reaches in to pull out her outfits for the week, hanging them in the wardrobe before gathering the items she requires for tonight and heading to the ensuite. She closes the door behind her and hangs the new dressing gown, knickers, and nightie on the hook, niggling her lip and wondering once again if he will think it all a bit too risqué.

 _I never should have asked Anna to help me pick these out._

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Mr. Carson returns with the wine and two glasses set on a tray, having insisted that no, they didn't need a room service waiter to deliver it, that he'd be more than happy to carry it up himself, that he _is_ a butler, after all. Truth be told, he didn't want it out of his sight once it had been uncorked; he wanted full control over this small part of the evening, because he suspected the _rest_ of it was going to be so very much _out_ of his control, indeed.

Setting the tray on the small table by the window, he finally removes his jacket and hangs it, noting at once that his wife's clothes are already neatly arranged in the wardrobe and that she's left him quite a bit of room for his own things. He smiles broadly, appreciating the simplicity of her planning and packing. He knows she has precious few outfits that don't pertain to work, but while he understands that is in part due to her financial situation ( _her_ _ **previous**_ _financial situation,_ he thinks with not a small bit of pride) he knows it's also because she simply never sees a need for excess. It's one of his favorite things about her.

He hears the water slosh as she gets into the tub and realizes she'll be a while. He unpacks, setting aside his pajamas and removing his shoes. As he pours the wine, he wonders if they will ever come to a point in their marriage when he'll simply bring her glass to her as she relaxes in the bath.

The thought is almost too much to bear, and he concentrates on myriad other minute details in order to redirect his mind toward some sort of decency.

 _It won't do to have her coming out of the bath and finding you in such a state,_ he scolds himself.

It's about twenty minutes more before she finally exits the bathroom, and she finds him sitting in the corner chair, a book on his knee, his spectacles adorning his face. A glance to her side tells her he's turned down the bed, which seems to be resplendent with extra sheets and pillows. The room has cooled considerably, but it's not chilly and so the fireplace remains untouched.

"You look quite distinguished in those _,_ you know," she blurts out, a nod indicating the spectacles.

"Just as long as you don't tell anyone _else_ I wear them," he smirks, not looking up. She watches as he finishes his chapter, removes his spectacles, and folds them before placing them and the book on the bedside table. "Not yet, anyhow."

Her heart fills with sweet joy as she digests his request; she hears his embarrassment at needing help to see the words on the page, and she understands only too well his reluctance to admit that he's getting on. She realizes fully how much he trusts her with his feelings and his pride, how he trusts her as he would trust no one else, and she vows for the second time that day - silently, now - to put her care for him above all else.

When he finally looks up at her, _truly_ looks, he's simply stunned. His jaw drops slightly and his bushy eyebrows fly up.

She's turned to hang her traveling suit, and his eyes are raking over her body. He can't manage to focus on one particular thing, because it's _all_ so new _._ Her hair hangs loosely - _She's not even plaited it,_ he notes. There's a desire to run his fingers through it, and he sees how there are small, damp ringlets that frame her face. Her skin is flushed from the heat of the bath; the dressing gown she wears has sleeves that don't quite reach her wrists, and the fabric falls even further toward her elbow as she reaches up and out to hang things. The hemline is somewhere around the middle of her calves … and she's barefoot.

 _Barefoot._ The utter domesticity of it has truly knocked him over. It's a sign of comfort, of what life will be like in their _home._

When she turns around again she catches him staring at her feet.

"I brought these lovely slippers that I have," she says softly, "but I foolishly forgot them when I took my things in for the bath." She bends to retrieve them from where she'd left them by the bed, and he needs to close his eyes and breathe very deeply to regain a small amount of control.

"Mr. Carson?" She's worried for him now, although she's fairly certain that it's _she_ who is responsible for his current state of speechlessness. She moves over to where he sits and reaches out to card her fingers through the hair at his temple. "Are you alright?"

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, awestruck. "And I am so much more than alright."

She blushes once again, amazed at how he is always able to bring her to such a state so easily. "Thank you."

The wine sits on the table beside them and she goes over to it, takes up both glasses, and hands him one before clinking her glass to his.

"To us," she says simply.

"To us."

There's not another chair in the room and she's reluctant to simply sit in his lap, so she moves over to the bed and climbs in; the look on his face as she does so makes her question if she was a bit too forward, however.

"This is rather extravagant, a glass of wine in bed," she jokes, and his laughter echoes in the room and calms her fears.

"It is, but I daresay you deserve it, after having planned this day so marvelously. I don't know that I've actually thanked you for that."

"I am just happy it all turned out well," she says, smiling. "Thank you again for agreeing to the school house."

He sips his wine and then gets up to place the glass on his nightstand, noticing that she took the side of the bed facing the window and left him (much to his happiness) the side nearest the door.

"I won't be but a few minutes," he explains, gathering up his things.

"Take your time," she encourages him. "The tub is quite nice. I do believe even _you'd_ fit comfortably in it."

He answers with a nod and heads in, closing the door firmly behind himself.

Mrs. Carson lets out a _very_ deep breath. Her nerves are completely shot after the wedding and overseeing all of the details for which he's just so lovingly thanked her, a feeling that is now completely superseded by her embarrassment at having just presented herself before him in thin nightclothes that barely hide anything as far as she can tell. Every curve is accentuated and highlighted, and she's not sure that's such a good thing.

 _Although he didn't seem to mind,_ she muses.

She smiles a bit, thinking that perhaps this night ahead of them, which has been tumbling through her mind for months on end in an endless loop of whispers, kisses, touches, and downright fear, might end up better than she'd ever dared to hope … because she knows he could speak countless words about love and beauty and everything else, but at the end of the day it will be the passion and love that were just shining in his eyes that will calm and fortify her the most.

She sits back against the pillows and pulls her own book onto her lap to read. She almost didn't even bring a book at all, but the practical side of her brain reminded her that not _every_ moment of their honeymoon would be spent unclothed and engaged in moments of passion. And she's glad of it now, because without it she'd be sitting in the bed going stir crazy and counting the seconds as they tick by on the clock.

 _Yes, a bit of distraction is a good thing._

She makes it through two chapters before she hears the water drain from the tub. She steadies herself, sipping her wine once more, and she's halfway through the third chapter when he emerges from the ensuite, clad in rather dashing burgundy pajamas. _They look new,_ she notes happily, _and he's clean-shaven again._ It all puts her a bit more at ease, knowing he had similar thoughts to her own, that tonight is special and deserving of some extra attention, and she marks her page and sets the book aside.

"Much better," he declares. "You were right; the tub is marvelous. We should see about getting one for the cottage."

"I usually am right, Mr. Carson," she quips, and it puts a smile on his face and instantly changes the atmosphere of the room; where a bit of anxiety and fear had crept in before, there was now a sense of the familiar, of their old ways in which they'd become so comfortable. "You should know that by now."

"Elsie ..." he begins nonchalantly.

"Mm?" Her heart pounds at the sound of her name in his deep, rumbling baritone.

"Charles. Please. When we're here … when we're alone … I've been just Mr. Carson for far too long."

She nods. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry - old habits." She pats the bed beside her and he slips underneath the covers and rests his back against the pillows she's propped up for him. "And we're different people now, in a way, aren't we? Although I do love being called 'Mrs. Carson,' I freely admit."

"Well, there's always the chance that I'll slip up myself. You've been my 'Mrs. Hughes' for such a very long time anyhow."

"Have I?" she whispers.

He reaches for his glass and the wine and refills his goblet and hers. He raises his toward her once again.

"For many years," he reminds her.

"Ah, yes," she smiles, drinking her wine. "I remember."

They sit in silence, drinking their wine and each a bit nervous about how the rest of the evening would play out.

"Should I light the fire?"

She shakes her head. "No, not unless you want to."

"No, no, I just worried you might be chilly."

"I'm fine, truly."

She finishes her wine and sets the glass on the table. When she turns back and readjusts herself a bit, she feels him move a bit nearer to her.

"Would you like to … come closer?" he asks, extending his arm. His hesitance is endearing and speaks of how his own lingering nerves mimic her own.

She tucks herself in by his side, awkwardly at best.

"I won't bite, you know."

She swats his chest before resting her head on it. "I know _that,"_ she chides. She sighs when the weight of his arm covers her and he gives her a gentle squeeze. "It's just all so new, I suppose. I feel I don't quite know where to put my arm, for example."

He chuckles at the truth in her words, at the honest awkwardness of it all. They sit quietly for a few moments, during which he slowly runs his fingers through her long tresses … and during which she yawns at least three times.

"Somebody is exhausted," he says gently, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

"Guilty. But -"

"But nothing," he says, tapping his fingertip gently on her nose. _"You_ need to rest."

"Charles, I'll be fine. And surely … I mean," she stammers, flushing, "surely that's not what you _expected …"_

"Ohhh, no. Stop right there, please." He reaches down to touch underneath her chin, tilting her head until she's looking into his eyes. "I _expect_ absolutely nothing,Elsie. What I _hope_ is that you'll enjoy a week away from the house, as we learn _together_ what it means to be married. And what I _know_ is that I'd be a poor husband, indeed, if I were to keep my wife up far past what is an advisable hour given her current state of fatigue."

She sits herself up more and leans over him, taking his face in her hands and pulling it toward her for a kiss.

"I love you, Charles," she murmurs against his lips, resting her forehead against his. "I'm not sure I realized quite how much before today."

He sits forward to kiss her more deeply, and she feels her heart skip a beat as his hands span the width of her scantily-clad back.

When they break apart, both are breathless.

"I'm not sure I'm tired anymore," she whispers.

Charles clears his throat, but when she sees his eyebrow climb she knows she's already lost the battle.

"I disagree," he says. He shifts their pillows down and lies on his, then helps her readjust her own.

She lies back a bit awkwardly, her arms resting on the blankets, which are tucked up over her chest. It feels strange, but she's not sure quite _what_ she's supposed to do.

"My hair will be in a state if I don't plait it," she realizes aloud.

"I'll brush it in the morning for you, if you like."

She looks over at him. "Would _you_ like that?"

He smiles sweetly, his eyes crinkling in the way she loves. "I would, actually. Very much."

Charles reaches to turn off the lamp, and then rolls onto his side. He reaches for her hand, lifts it to his lips, and kisses her knuckles before scooting a bit closer to her and encouraging her to roll over a bit.

She readily complies, facing the window and the moonlight that is now peeking in. The tide is out and the waves are calm, and it lends a sense of peace to the night.

She takes a deep breath and scoots back a bit, and she smiles when she feels the weight of her husband's arm as he lays it across her waist and pulls her into his embrace, spooning her petite frame with his much larger one and making her feel completely safe and secure. His other arm slides underneath her pillow, and he leans over to kiss her cheek, her ear, her temple, and the corner of her mouth.

"Rest," he whispers into her ear as she yawns widely.

"We've waited so long for this," she murmurs, hugging his arm closer to her. "I feel awful to be nodding off."

"Don't," he insists. "It's been a long day for us both, and neither of us slept much last night, either. At least, _you_ didn't."

He hesitates, and she feels it, _senses_ it.

"Go on."

She feels him kiss the back of her head and he murmurs into her hair, "I'm so happy just to be falling asleep with you in my arms, my darling wife. I was just thinking that, for right now, _this_ is better than I'd ever imagined. I find that I don't want to rush any bit of it away."

"Mm," she hums, her eyes growing heavy. "It is rather nice. And I believe I'll enjoy waking up in your arms, too. You're not the only one who's been imagining this, Charles."

His laughter rumbles against her back, and he pulls her impossibly closer as they both drift off to sleep.

* * *

 _ **Disclaimer - I am aware that part of this resembles another fic that came out a little while ago. I'd already written this well before that and, after chatting with that author, decided not to change anything.**_

 _ *** - Yeah, inspired by a film. Bonus points if you knew which one.**_ **:) And don't shoot me - the rest of the wedding night is coming tomorrow!**


	29. Music That Makes Me Dance

**A/N: Thanks so much for the fabulous reviews, especially the guests to whom I cannot reply directly.**

 **I realize that a couple of you found the last chapter a bit odd, but in this particular instance I think that a night of no sleep followed by a busy wedding day would have made Elsie just about dead on her feet, and that Charles would have wanted her a bit more awake in order to be able to enjoy their … activities. I like to think that despite what we saw in CookingGate, he truly would put his wife's feelings and needs ahead of his own, even forcing her to rest when she insisted she was fine.**

 **That said, this is an *M rated chapter.* It's not over-the-top "M" and I won't change the rating of the entire story, but it's worth mentioning in case sex between over-60s squicks you.**

 **Wishing all my friends a very Happy Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for all of you, and for this glorious Chelsie community.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **He'll sleep and he'll rise**_

 _ **In the light of two eyes that adore him.**_

 _ **In every way, every day I need less of myself.**_

 _ **I need more him ... m**_ _ **ore him.**_

 _ **'Cause his is the only music that makes me dance.**_

* * *

Elsie wakes beside her husband about four hours later. She knows instantly where she is, inhaling deeply and breathing in a somewhat new scent, a combination of her soap and his, added to the familiar smell that she thinks of as just _him,_ something woodsy and reminiscent of home.

 _Home._

She's nowhere near any physical home she's ever had. Never before has she been surrounded by such elegance and fine furnishings, by linens of such quality and by a room so well-appointed - at least, nowhere that wasn't work. But she _is_ home, more home than she's ever felt, for she feels so right, so _perfectly right_ lying by his side.

She shifts a bit so that she can turn and look at him, realizing that at some point he rolled onto his back again, that he took his arm back instead of keeping her wrapped up tightly in his embrace. It doesn't surprise her, for they've spent their entire lifetimes sleeping alone and she imagines it will take some time getting used to sleeping with one another.

Something else is different, though, something she cannot quite place. Her mind is hazy, and as she replays the night in her head it takes her a moment to pull it forward.

 _Oh, the dear man._

She realizes she's watching the flicker of light moving along the wall in what should be a pitch-black room, realizes she's quite warm, indeed, and that Charles must have gotten up and started a fire in the hearth after she'd so unceremoniously fallen asleep.

Well, at least she's awake now.

He's got the blankets around his waist and she raises herself up on her elbow, propping her head on her hand as she glances over his peaceful countenance, smiling to herself as she watches him sleep. He doesn't snore, which makes her immensely happy, but his breathing is deep and even and she finds it calming.

Her eyes move down past his chin to the sparse, gray hair peeking out from the opening at the top of his pajamas. She sees that he's left the top two buttons undone, and it makes her smile more broadly because it's so opposite to how he's forced to wear his livery day in and day out. Thinking back to the handful of times she's seen him clad in pajamas at the Abbey, she realizes that this more relaxed way is new to her, and that he must keep himself properly buttoned even in his sleepwear when at the Abbey, when there's a chance that the staff would see him in his pajamas.

But he doesn't have to be buttoned up in her presence … now she gets to see him completely at ease. Before she knows it, her fingers are reaching out for that small patch of his chest, her touch brushing across the skin as she marvels at the softness of him.

He stirs, and she instantly retracts her hand. But it appears that he's still asleep and so she returns her fingertips to their previous location, now tucking them underneath his shirt. His breathing has changed and she _thinks_ he's awake, but she is hesitant to verify that theory in case he's able to catch some more sleep than she was.

"Good morning," he mumbles, and she flushes a bit at how the deep, raspy tone to his voice stirs something deep within her.

"Good morning - I think. The sun's not up yet."

He opens his eyes and licks his lips before reaching to cover her hand as it lies on his chest. "I was having the most wonderful dream."

"Oh?" She smirks at him and twists her hand a bit, catching his fingers in her own.

"Yes. It appears I was _married,_ can you believe that?"

She laughs. "As it so happens, I _am_ having a bit of difficulty believing it, but it sounds intriguing."

"It was. My wife was the loveliest of women, inside and out, and I felt completely unworthy."

"Oh, come now," she chides softly.

"It turns out it wasn't a dream." He reaches over to tuck her long hair behind her ear and then lifts himself up a bit to capture her lips in a soft kiss.

Her breath catches when his lips separate hers, when she feels his tongue brush along her lower lip. When her mouth opens more and his tongue actually touches hers, she almost loses her mind. But she refuses to back away, and when he presses forward a bit more insistently she finds her hand leaving his chest and finding purchase in his hair as she holds him to her, her body reacting in ways that would previously have embarrassed her … but no more. She understands now the sudden heat between her legs, the oddly wet sensation that she feels there, understands that it's _him_ that's making it happen, this one thing on a list of so many _other_ things that she's only ever going to experience with Charles.

 _Charlie. Perhaps._ She thinks so, though.

After a moment, the need to breathe becomes too great and she's forced to push him away. She wonders how people manage to _do_ this all the time, how they breathe at all, and she finds she's rather looking forward to discovering the secret to it.

"Well," she manages. "That was something."

He waggles his eyebrows and she giggles, her fingers still carding through the hair by his temple.

"Is this how we'll wake up every morning, I wonder?"

"Well, I'd not complain," he answers, tilting his head so that her palm cups his cheek; he smiles when she brushes his lips with her thumb.

They stare into one another's eyes for a moment, until she needs to shift her position and get off of her elbow. She rolls onto her back and he moves up to hover over her.

"Did you sleep well?" His lips brush across her forehead and she sighs.

"I did. Very well, actually, and I didn't expect that I would. What time is it, exactly?"

"I'm not sure that I care," he answers, his voice deep, his eyes now fully awake. He's now entirely aware of the feel of her nightgown, of the silkiness of the fabric against his wrist, where his sleeve had ridden up a bit when he moved to lay his arm around her waist.

Elsie swallows a bit nervously and moistens her lips. "Well …"

"Well." He leans down and kisses her again, a gentle touch that slowly becomes deeper and more passionate, and she moans into his mouth, spurring him on a bit further and stirring him into a heightened state of arousal. Her hands move up behind his back, attempting to pull him down closer despite his efforts to not allow the whole of his body to touch hers just yet. His hand slides off of her hip, however, and slowly climbs up her ribcage, pausing before his fingers reach her breast, and her breath catches.

He moves away again, aware that he'll need to take his time in order to keep himself under control - and because it occurs to him belatedly that he may be scaring her.

"I don't mean to frighten you, Elsie. God knows I would never want to do anything you're not comfortable with. If you ever want me to stop ..."

"I know that," she tells him. "And you're not scaring me, not really, and I _definitely_ don't want you to stop. I want this - all of this - so very much, but ..."

"But?"

She shakes her head. "I don't … It's just all so _new,_ Charles. And, to be perfectly honest, it's a bit overwhelming."

 _And I have no idea what you want me to do,_ she thinks, but she can't bear to say that bit out loud.

He raises an eyebrow at her declaration. "It is for me, too. But we'll learn together," he reminds her, and she nods. "I've never … well, not like this."

"I know," she whispers, wondering what he meant by _like this_ but most definitely not wanting to ask right now.

"And I've been looking forward to this for a very, _very_ long time," he adds, dropping a kiss to her forehead.

"I hope you don't think that _I_ haven't been looking forward to it," she tells him frankly, "because I have. Very much. I just … Well, we were off to a good start. Perhaps you could kiss me again?"

He smiles brilliantly. "It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Carson."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The next many minutes are spent kissing, exploring one another's mouths as hands roam over sides, arms, and more. At one point, Charles clutches Elsie to himself and, somehow, they end up facing one another, on their sides once more.

She feels his hand twitch at her side, just against her ribs, and she knows what he's thinking, that he's seeking permission from her. It thrills her that he wants to have his hands on her body, that he's excited by the prospect of it all and not appalled by the sight of her, by the sounds she's making.

She shifts slightly, ducking her body a bit further down, effectively placing the bottom of her breast into his palm. When he squeezes it, she lets out a sound akin to a squeal, causing him to break away suddenly in fear.

"Have I hurt you?"

"Oh, heavens no, Charles. Just … keep doing that." She blushes, the red spreading across her chest and throat, and he finds her embarrassment touching.

He's only too happy to oblige, of course, and dips his head to kiss her neck, brushing his thumb over her hardened nipple and smiling when she groans with delight and arches her back a bit, pushing herself more firmly into his palm.

Charles marvels at Elsie's reactions to his ministrations. It's more than he'd dared to hope for, that she'd not just give herself to him because she felt it was her duty as his wife, but also because she might feel that she, too, could find pleasure in it all. He looks in her eyes, noting the darker hue of blue that is now staring back at him; his heart fills with pride as he realizes that she _wants_ to be his lover - not just as a 'wifely duty,' but as a true partner in all ways.

He moves his hand to her shoulder, then brushes his knuckles up the curve of her jaw. "I'll do whatever you want me to, Elsie. I want nothing more than to make you happy."

She has no reply, biting back the words about how she'd be happy with any form of affection from him. It sounds trite in her mind, and it's not really the truth … not entirely. She would have been _content_ to simply be his wife in a sweet, loving, warm marriage. But she's accepted it now, the chance to be his lover, to share this most intimate of experiences with him; it's already more than she ever thought she'd have in her entire life.

And now she finds that she's less and less afraid, and more and more excited by every touch.

" _This_ makes me happy." She takes a deep breath and reaches for his hand, placing it atop her breast again before moving her own hand down to his side, pulling up a bit on his shirt and tucking her fingers underneath it to caress his warm skin. "I'm still a bit nervous, I'll admit. But this is heavenly."

"I'm a bit nervous, too, truth be told. But we're always rather good together, aren't we? I see no reason why _this_ should be any different." He smiles teasingly at her and she bites down on her lip and nods somewhat excitedly.

"Charles?"

"Mm?"

"Kiss me again. Please?"

And so he does.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Somehow she's managed to undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt without him realizing it. He figures it out when she slides her hands up over his shoulders to push the fabric off and he feels a burst of cool air, and he lifts himself up long enough to remove the shirt and toss it somewhere beside them on the bed. He'd not bothered with a vest underneath given the warmth of the pajamas themselves, and … well, truly, he didn't feel he _needed_ it.

Her hair is in a right state, and he thinks she might be horrified if she could see herself just now: red, swollen lips, flushed skin (which he appears to have marked just below her left shoulder), and her nightgown ridden up to her thighs from his hand having bunched it up by her hip.

She's positively breathtaking, and he's overwhelmed to look at her and realize that all of his dreams are coming true.

"Charlie?"

The corner of his lip turns up at the question, at the name.

"Charles …"

"No," he tells her, brushing her forehead with yet another kiss. "I like it. But only from you, mind."

She beams at him, her eyes alight with passion and humor and love.

He glances down at her chest again and slowly lowers his head, his lips pulling at her nipple through the soft fabric and causing her to arch her back again, crying out at the overwhelming sensitivity. And then his hand is reaching for the tie at her shoulder, undoing it slowly as he stares into her eyes, always seeking permission that she's only too willing to give. As the knot comes apart, he peels the satin down, exposing her entire breast and inhaling deeply in order to control his reaction.

She can _feel_ his reaction, of course. She's not acknowledged it aloud, but she's been feeling it since they began kissing in earnest. She feels him twitch against her leg now, before he bends down and his lips find purchase on her once again, his tongue circling gently and causing her to writhe beneath him … and making her feel trapped in the nightgown, which is now arranged and tucked awkwardly around her.

"Charlie, wait," she gasps, pushing him off of her. He moves over quickly and she kneels, steels herself with pursed lips and tightly-shut eyes… and reaches down to grasp the nightgown and pull it up and over her head in one swift movement. It falls somewhere on the floor.

"My God, woman," he moans. He sits up and reaches out to cup her breasts in his hands. "You'll be the death of me."

It's her turn to smirk. "I certainly hope not." She winks at him, and he nearly growls as he grabs her in his arms and they tumble back onto the bed, him ending on his back and pulling her down on top of him as their lips crash together once again.

Touches, caresses, kisses, moans … every sense heightened, every awareness shared. Fears discarded by the wayside as they explore one another's bodies, as they whisper words of love and adoration and desire. She discovers that his chest is as sensitive as her own when her lips travel across it, her tongue teasing him as he lies beneath her. She's careful not to lay _entirely_ atop him, mindful not to hurt him or cause him any discomfort.

Minutes later she's somehow on her back again, and they've paused to catch their breath.

"Elsie?" His hand moves to her hip, to where the lace of her knickers rests against her skin.

She nods, afraid to speak lest her voice shake. She's not afraid anymore, not of _it,_ but she is a bit nervous that if she speaks, she'll sound like some horribly wanton woman who will be a disappointment to him. She, who has always managed to hold herself a cut above, has been reduced to a puddle of love and lust in their marital bed.

 _Perhaps this is how it_ _ **should**_ _be,_ she thinks.

As her husband removes her last vestige of clothing, followed rather quickly by his own, she knows she's right.

"I'm afraid to cause you pain," he admits, now hovering above her, his knees between her legs.

"It'll be alright," she reassures him, her hand caressing his arm.

He tilts his head in acknowledgement of her words before slowly moving his hand along her hip and across her thigh, pausing once again until she nods her approval.

As his fingers move between her thighs she mutters something unintelligible, but he's encouraged by the look of pleasure on her face and continues to touch her gently, attentive to her reactions and filing them away for later but not stopping until she reaches out and pushes his hand aside.

She can't believe how suddenly she _needs_ him, needs _more_ from him, finally understanding how it is that people would give up almost anything for a chance to feel the way she feels in that moment.

"Charlie," she whispers huskily. "Please …"

It's all he needs to hear, and he shifts himself a bit, supporting himself on one arm as he positions himself where he needs to be.

He whispers her name in one long, drawn-out breath as he joins their bodies together at last, just a bit to allow them both to get used to the sensation, and she inhales sharply.

"Are you alright?"

She's overwhelmed, but manages to nod a few times. There's a bit of pain, but nothing like what her overactive imagination had feared. "I'm so much more than alright, love."

He gently pushes in deeper, pausing again until she reaffirms that she's not in any pain, and then slowly begins to find a rhythm.

She's fascinated by the sight of him hovering above her; as for the feeling of having him _within_ her, that is absolutely _nothing_ like what she'd ever imagined.

For his part, Charles is moved by the trust she places in him to care for her and to keep her from harm. She's giving herself to him in mind, body, and soul - he can read it in her eyes, which aren't closed as he'd so often imagined they would be, but rather are wide open and staring into the depths of his own, making the entire experience even more intimate than either of them had dared to dream.

It's not long before he feels himself losing control. He doesn't want to, tries to slow himself down to prevent it all from ending too quickly for her.

"Charlie?"

"I don't .. I don't want … I mean, you haven't …"

She's clearly confused, and he shakes his head. But he can't hold himself back any longer; as his movements speed up once again, he's spurred on by the feeling of her legs moving, wrapping around his own.

"Oh," she gasps, the deeper sensation gained by moving her legs entirely surprising to her. "Charlie ... " She can feel something deep inside of her beginning to stir.

With one final motion forward he stills, his body shuddering. She is a bit taken aback that she can _feel_ him spilling inside of her. Certainly no one had ever prepared her for _that._

She moves her head and reaches up for his face, looking past the exertion and the sheen of his brow and reading the complete bliss in his expression. She leans up and kisses him fully, squeezing him with her legs as well as her arms, embracing him in as many ways as she can.

"I'm sorry, love," he's saying.

"Don't you dare apologize for even one thing, Charles."

"But you didn't …" He can't bring himself to say it aloud.

Elsie is puzzled, knowing there's something he won't say. "I feel incredible, Charlie. That's all I know. Whatever is worrying you - don't let it."

But he shakes his head. "You'll see," he promises, stifling a yawn.

He shifts, and Elsie feels his body slip from hers.

"Ohhh."

She reaches out and grasps his arm, not willing to completely relinquish him … not yet.

 _Not ever … not anymore._

"What is it?" His face is full of concern, always.

"I didn't expect … never mind," she says, blushing.

Concern melts into love as he reaches to brush her mussed hair from her forehead.

"I know." He reassures her with a kiss and then rolls onto his back and opens his arms, and she readily tucks herself in once again. She squeezes him tightly, smiling as he peppers her hair with kisses.

They lie like that for a while, with Charles growing drowsy once again before her sudden giggle startles him.

"Elsie?"

She looks up at him and smiles. "I think that, in the end, _you_ were more afraid of how that would go than I was," she teases him, her fingers trailing through the sparse hair covering his abdomen.

"Perhaps."

"Well," she adds, a satisfied smile playing about her lips, "I can safely say that I now know what the allure of it all is."

But her husband, keeper of the secrets of a life on the stage, of stories told by women much less restrained and refined than his wife, just shakes his head as he holds her more tightly.

"You just wait," he says, nodding off once again.

She wants to ask ... but then again, she really doesn't. She's felt so incredible this entire beautiful night ( _and morning,_ she remembers) that she doesn't wish to push her luck.

* * *

 **Please leave a wee review and let me know what you thought! It's so hard to write the wedding night, honestly, especially as I've done it before and didn't want to make them exactly the same. x**


	30. The Sun Is Getting High

**A/N: Thanks for the love for the last chapter. I know it didn't please everyone, but I felt it was realistic for their ages and level of fatigue. That said, we do make progress here.**

 **I think I marked my replies as Chapter 30 and hope I didn't confuse anyone - THIS is 30, and I blame post-Thanksgiving eating coma for that slip of the mind. :)**

 **Rated a very strong "T" for implied shenanigans, but could pass for an "M" I suppose.**

 **I appreciate all of your continued support as we near the end of this fic. xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Half time goes by**_

 _ **Suddenly you're wise**_

 _ **Another blink of an eye**_

 _ **Sixty seven is gone.**_

 _ **The sun is getting high**_

 _ **We're moving on …**_

* * *

 _All my dreams are coming true._

That thought keeps playing through Charles's mind as he wakes with his arms full of one sleeping housekeeper.

 _My_ _ **wife.**_

He knows things like this happen, of course, knows how friendship can turn into a desire for more permanent companionship. He's read those books Elsie is so fond of, the ones she assumes he'd never borrow from his Lordship's library. He's read about the people who've felt thunderstruck by love, who've felt it hit all at once in a way that washes over a man and threatens to drown him; he's also read about people who've felt it coming on so gradually that they weren't even aware of it until it was too late.

He feels that he falls somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. He remembers the early days when they didn't get on well, despite a niggling in his mind that it was worth treating the new head housemaid with care, that she was worth paying attention to, that it was worth learning about her and pursuing a friendship. He remembers quite distinctly the day she became housekeeper, when he'd gifted her with the chatelaine which has ever since resided on her hip; it had been a rather odd occurrence for a butler to present the housekeeper with such a gift, but he knew she'd not had one at her last post and the gift had seemed like a token of peace between them, a shiny new beginning to what each had hoped would be a solid working relationship.

He also remembers the day he realized he was hopelessly in love with the woman. She probably thinks it was when she was ill, but the reality was that it had been much sooner, when he'd been contemplating leaving Downton and joining Lady Mary at Haxby. He'd decided to go, but the decision had been eating away at him. Having attributed it to the seeming betrayal of Lord Grantham, he'd pushed those feelings aside.

But then he told Elsie he'd decided to leave, and his heart had nearly stopped with the sudden realization that _she_ was the one he felt he was betraying. He'd been shocked to find he could leave the house and the rest of the family behind quite easily, in fact, but that the housekeeper would be another story altogether.

 _"Don't tell me you'll miss me."_

There was a hurt look in her eyes when he told her, a soft sadness he'd seen there that had only been reinforced by her words. He had been expecting her to do the proper thing by supporting him, saying that he'd do well and that it was the right decision for him, saying that they'd remain in contact and see one another at events which would bring the family together once again.

But she hadn't; instead, she'd unknowingly forced him to face his true feelings for her with fourteen short words, spoken in that gorgeous brogue that he now hears in his dreams:

" _I will, Mr. Carson. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it."_

He's brought out of his thoughts by the very object of them shifting on his chest, and he feels the slight chill on his skin when she raises her head, only to turn and lay the other cheek against his heart.

"I must be dreaming," she murmurs. "There is no way this is truly happening."

His soft laughter rumbles in her ear, making her giggle and sending a warm sensation flooding through her body.

"I was just having a similar thought, but I can assure you: this is very, very real."

Elsie sighs happily and moves her head again to place a soft kiss to his bare shoulder.

"Thank God."

As the fire crackles in the hearth, they both drift off to sleep once again.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

The soft rap on the door startles her, and she tosses the washing cloth on the edge of the tub and pulls on her dressing gown quickly, tiptoeing to answer it before whoever it is can knock again and wake Charles from his slumber. She pats her hair down into some semblance of neatness, grateful that she at least had a chance to wash.

She reaches the door and opens it to a rather embarrassed-looking - and _young_ \- room service delivery man.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Carson," he says quietly, "but Mr. Carson had requested an early breakfast cart for this morning."

"Ah, yes. Thank you very much," she whispers back. "He's asleep, so if you'll just hold the door, I'll be happy to bring it in."

It isn't worth the young man's life to contradict a guest of the hotel, particularly one that looks like she could scold him worse than his Mam would, and so with a nervous tilt of the head, he obliges.

Elsie takes the cart, which is mercifully silent as it rolls across the carpet, and she returns with a coin which she presses into his palm with her thanks and a kind smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Carson."

Elsie nods before closing the door behind him and then turning her attentions back to the cart.

She sets herself to preparing their tea, thinking she'll surprise Charles with a kiss to wake him. The thought brings a broad smile to her face as she wonders how many times she'd had to wake him when he dozed in his chair in the pantry, or when he'd nodded off while in her sitting room; they were always late nights, and she'd wondered each time if there would ever be a night when she'd be able to rouse him from his slumber with a kiss instead of a false cough or a brush of her fingers on his forehead.

 _No need to wonder anymore,_ she thinks happily.

She's startled by the creak of the bed, followed by the sound of the man himself sliding his legs out from underneath the sheets and pulling on his pajama bottoms. Deciding to give him some privacy, she continues preparing the tea without turning around.

"Good morning," she says, her back to him. "Did the knock wake you?"

"No," he replies, startling her with how close he's standing. "I think it was the light, actually. We never did draw the curtain."

She turns to look out the window and sees that the sun is, indeed, on its way up. But her thoughts are interrupted by the feel of her husband's hands on her hips, their warmth seeping through the thin material of the dressing gown.

"You did not just answer the door wearing _this,"_ he whispers, horrified. "Did you?"

"I did," she confirms, turning to face him and arching an eyebrow. "And I'd just finished washing, if you must know, so the alternative was answering it wearing nothing at all."

They both blush a bit before she adds, "And I didn't exactly have time to dress, you know; I didn't want him to keep knocking and have him wake you."

" _Him?"_

"Yes, Charlie," she says soothingly. "A lad of no more than eighteen, I'd say. Very nice boy at that." She turns to pick up his cup, but her actions are thwarted when Charles slides his right hand from her hip to the tie of her dressing gown.

"And what if this had … slipped open?" he whispers, his breath tickling her neck.

"Well, it's a good job that it didn't," she retorts, "or they'd never have seen that sweet young man again, he'd have been so horrified! Now, as lovely as it is standing here with you, I am famished. I need to consume my half of this lovely breakfast soon, and wouldn't mind tucking in with you and watching the rest of the sunrise from the comfort of that luxurious bed."

She can't help but smile as her husband's lips brush her neck and he hums in happiness.

"That sounds like a perfect plan, Mrs. Carson."

Elsie carries the cups over to her nightstand while Charles plates up a few things for each of them, choosing the items least likely to leave crumbs in the bed as they're eating. He hands Elsie her plate and sets his on his nightstand before climbing into the bed and sitting back against the pillows she's propped up for him.

As Elsie passes him his tea, Charles bends forward a bit and places a kiss to her temple.

"Thank you, love."

Her loving smile makes his heart sing, and they sit back against the headboard, legs tucked up and plates in their laps, quietly enjoying breakfast in bed as the sun peeks over the treeline through the window.

"I can't think of a better way to spend our first morning together, Charles." She takes his empty cup and places it on the nightstand with her own, the plates long since returned to the cart.

"That _was_ lovely," he agrees, sliding his hand over her collarbone and slipping it underneath the lapel of her dressing gown. "However, I must disagree with the idea that nothing could be better."

She lets out a soft gasp as his hand cups her breast. "I see," she says.

"That is … we don't have to …" Charles doesn't know what he was thinking, truly, and chastises himself silently. _Really, man! Can't you control yourself?_

But Elsie reaches up and grasps his wrist, impeding his ability to remove his hand from where it lies.

"Don't stop," she murmurs, leaning back into his chest as she bites down on her lip. "I hope you don't think it horribly wanton of me, but I think I'd rather enjoy seeing how we could improve on a sunrise."

He sees a beautiful blush creep up her chest, and he leans down and nips at her ear.

"Believe me, Elsie. I would _never_ think badly of you for wanting this … this …" He finds himself overcome with emotion, and swallows it down. " … this beautiful thing we're managing to create between us."

He moves back and she turns her body toward his, laying her hands upon his chest and sliding them up to clasp them behind his neck.

"It _is_ beautiful," she tells him, and she leans forward to kiss his cheek. "It was beautiful last night, as I recall."

"Was it?" He reaches up and twirls a lock of her hair around his finger. There's a wariness in his eyes suddenly, and it hurts her heart.

"Charlie," she explains patiently, "you are the most patient, loving, wonderful man. Last night ... " Her eyes close as she shakes her head gently. "Last night, you made me feel more beautiful, more like a _lady,_ than I've ever felt in my entire life. I won't let you forget that, love. Ever. So please, none of this uncertainty."

His emotion is evident in the shimmer of his eyes. "If you're sure," he says, a whisper of a question still there.

But Elsie just raises her eyebrows and smiles. "I have never been so sure," she whispers, leaning forward to kiss him softly on the mouth.

He pulls her onto his lap, and after several minutes of kissing and caressing he maneuvers her so that she's straddling his legs.

"Oh!" she exclaims softly, finding herself suddenly facing her husband, who is placing his hands on her hips again as she steadies herself by grasping his shoulders.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I think so," she replies, sitting back on his legs. "You?"

"Oh, yes," he murmurs, his eyes drinking in her appearance. "We really need to do something about your hair later," he teases, reaching up and brushing it back over her shoulder.

"It can wait," she says, and he nods.

"And I seem to have marked you … here," he adds, touching the dark spot. "I'm sorry about that."

"Yes, I'd noticed. And don't be; it was a rather lovely reminder, if you must know."

He watches as she passes her tongue across her lips to moisten them, and the darkening of his eyes does not escape her.

"Charlie?" she asks.

But his movements are swift, and no sooner does she have the last syllable of his name out than he's sitting forward, his arms tightly around her as he's kissing her passionately, tasting the fragrance of the tea on her tongue.

She mewls into his mouth, startled, before kissing him right back. She feels his hands drift underneath her dressing gown again, and she reaches down herself to pull the knot apart, the fabric falling to the side as Charles breaks their kiss to slide the satin aside and drink in the sight of her body.

Elsie watches as his eyes examine her, finding only beauty no matter where he looks. His eyes land on the scar on the inside of her breast, and he leans down and kisses it gently, with Elsie bending forward and kissing the top of his head as he does so.

"It's alright," she whispers.

"Did it hurt terribly?" He can't help it; he needs to know.

"It did," she tells him, grateful that she can be honest about it at last. "But I think I mind the scar more than I minded the pain, in hindsight. It's rather unsightly."

He looks up and meets her gaze.

"It's not," he insists. "It's a physical reminder of the strength you carry within you."

"It's a reminder that I was terrified," she says harshly, but he lays two fingers across her lips to quiet her.

"Well, _now_ it can be a reminder that you don't ever have to suffer through anything by yourself again."

Tears pool in her eyes and she leans her head forward on his once more, her tears of frustration and all the fear she'd kept bottled up inside all those years ago coming out fast and furious at long last. Chalking it up to her heightened emotional state, she allows herself to weep silently for the battle she had to fight, alone but for the support of Mrs. Patmore. She listens to his soothing whispers of love as he holds her against his body, reminding her over and over again that she is no longer alone.

He feels it when her tears cease at last, and he grasps her face and peppers it with kisses.

"I love you so much, my darling girl," he whispers. "I loved you then, too."

"I know," she tells him, wiping at her face. "I'm sorry I didn't feel that I could tell you. And I'm sorry about all the tears just now; I don't know what happened. I fear I've ruined what was promising to be a lovely morning."

He just shakes his head slowly in disbelief. "Elsie, I don't think you understand."

There's a questioning look on her face, a furrow to her brow.

"It's a lovely morning simply because I'm sharing it with you."

Elsie opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again, and then manages, "You beautiful, sweet man."

He smiles. "That's debatable, I'm sure," he says wryly.

"Not to me," she says emphatically.

She feels Charles sliding his hands up and down her thighs, and it sends a somewhat familiar shiver through her body. "Charlie?"

"Hm?" he asks innocently, a sparkle in his eyes. "Something wrong?"

"No," she gasps as his fingers squeeze her bottom. "Nothing at all."

She leans forward and kisses him soundly, stopping only to laugh with glee as he tumbles them both down onto the bed, hovering over her.

"I don't suppose we're going to be exploring that castle today, are we?" she asks.

When Elsie reaches her hand tentatively down, brushing her fingers across the sparse hair on his belly and tucking the very tips of her fingers underneath the waistband of his pants, he feels himself react to just that simple touch.

"I don't think so, Mrs. Carson."

"Excellent," she says seductively, silently wondering just where that particular tone of her voice came from; it certainly wasn't her - or, more accurately, it certainly wasn't _Mrs. Hughes._

Mr. Carson didn't seem to mind at all.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Elsie sighs as her husband's fingers ghost up and down her leg, and she's whispering things in a language he doesn't understand as his lips follow where his fingers have been. He's been spending the past many minutes caressing and kissing her entire body, and she thinks she might have melted right into mattress if every nerve in her body weren't aflame with desire.

But when he makes it to the inside of her thigh, she stiffens slightly.

 _Oh, heavens, surely he doesn't want to_ …

It appears he does, however.

He's curious about her reaction, realizing she's both uncomfortable and eager in equal measure.

"Elsie?"

He looks up at her and she whispers, "Charles? Do you mean to …?"

She may not live in a sack, but _this_ is certainly something she's not heard of before. _Still, he_ _ **seems**_ _to want to …_

He shifts up to kiss her face, her lips, and then whispers into her ear, "Relax, love. Do you trust me?"

"More than anyone; you know that."

"Then lie back and relax," he repeats softly.

He trails his hand and his kisses back downward as Elsie closes her eyes and relaxes, only to have them fly open again as her husband's fingertips and lips reach their intended destination.

"Oh, Charlie," she groans, her fingers grasping at the bed sheets and twisting them in her hands. "Oh, my …"

As promised, her lovely man shows her that there were things she'd been missing out on, indeed. Lovely, sacred things that make her heart and body explode with love and desire for the beautiful man she's blessed to have married.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Charles makes good on his promise later that afternoon, drawing the hairbrush through his wife's hair as she sits between his legs on the bed, her back to him and the sheet drawn around her body.

"I haven't had anyone else brush my hair since I was a young lass," she realizes. "Except for Anna, yesterday, but that hardly counts."

"I'm rather enjoying myself, I'll have you know," he replies, drawing his fingers through her long tresses as he checks for snarls. He finds one, and brings the brush over to it, lifting the hair in his grasp so as not to pull against her scalp and cause her pain. "I'd be happy to do this every morning, if you'll let me."

"Hmm … we'll see about that," she teases. "When it's not even daybreak and we're rising even earlier than normal to manage the walk from the cottage to the Abbey, you'll change your tune."

But he just bends his head down and kisses the spot where her neck and shoulder meet.

"You just wait," he whispers.

When he's finished, they manage to get up, wash, and dress. The negotiating of the bathroom is a bit less awkward today, and Elsie is most grateful for a chance to brush her teeth and examine her face in the mirror.

She is not surprised to find that she _looks_ different. Her face appears relaxed and there's a glow in her eyes that she knows her husband has put there. She thanks her lucky stars that Charles is even more loving and caring than she'd ever thought possible.

The clock chimes, reminding her that they need to leave the room soon, before the housemaid comes to clean it. She tries very hard not to think about the details of what that will involve; however, having been a maid and housekeeper for more years than she cares to remember, she feels she's a bit more prepared for it than Charles, who is suitably mortified.

"Better we're not here when she arrives. That way you don't have to face her when she shows up with clean bed sheets," Elsie tells him with a giggle. "It's bad enough she wasn't able to come in the morning because we were … occupied. Now, let's have a walk on the beach, hm?"

"How about an early dinner?" he replies with a kiss to the tip of her nose. "We can stop at that lovely restaurant on the corner and head to the beach afterwards."

"I say yes to an early dinner," she agrees with a laugh. "I'm starving, I don't mind saying."

"Well, we've worked up quite an appetite," he replies softly.

They chat about anything and everything over dinner: her childhood and his, their concerns about the young children at the Abbey, her suspicions about Anna and his overwhelming happiness for the Bateses should they be true, the weather for the upcoming week.

After dessert, which Elsie insists Charles order and which she shares with him when he offers it, they leave the restaurant and find themselves walking along the boardwalk by the sea. There are few people about, but Elsie is surprised to feel her husband clasp her hand in his own as they walk.

"This is very forward of you, Charles, holding my hand where anyone might see."

But he leans over and whispers his reply, his lips nearly brushing the outer edge of her ear and driving her mad.

"I'd say it's one of the least forward things I've done the last two days, my darling wife. And we're getting on, after all, as you so kindly reminded me once. One mustn't be too reserved."

She stops and leans back against the railing; he steps before her, his feet on either side of her own.

"Is that so?" she questions, bemusedly shaking her head. "I'd like to know what happened to the butler I married yesterday; I'm not certain that he's the same man who is on this lovely honeymoon with me."

Charles looks up and down the boardwalk and verifies that they are alone before brushing his lips against her forehead and then looking deep into her eyes.

She sighs softly as his fingertips dance along her jawline.

"I'm sixty-seven years old, Elsie. I've watched my entire life pass me by, and even though you shared half of it with me, nothing I've experienced in that lifetime has made me half as joyful as I have been these last two days. Sharing my life, my heart, and my body with you have shown me what it truly means to _live._ And so yes, I shall hold your hand as we walk the beach at sunset. I shall attempt every day to remind you how beautiful you are, and that I love you. And, one day, when we're retired and have nothing to do with our days, I'll hold you in my arms as we wake slowly, rise late, and love one another wholeheartedly."

He leans forward and kisses her deeply.

"I've waited my whole life for this, and I'll not waste another moment of it now."

* * *

 **Please drop me a wee review and let me know what you think! x**


	31. It Must Be You

**A/N: The honeymoon ends with this chapter. I inadvertently marked some review replies incorrectly, and I think a few people missed the last chapter, so you may want to just be sure you've read the entire honeymoon. :)**

 **That said, Chelsie on, my friends. Thanks to you all for reviewing - that really keeps me going and means so very much. x**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Hold me now like this forever**_

 _ **Let this moment go on endlessly …**_

 _ **Everything I've dreamed is coming true.**_

 _ **What's this feeling in my heart?**_

 _ **It must be you.**_

* * *

It's Thursday - their last full day in Scarborough before they depart tomorrow - and Charles and Elsie are in no rush to get out of bed. His fingers are trailing up and down her back slowly, avoiding the ticklish spot he discovered on her right side. She's wearing the nightgown from their first night there, and he stops once in a while to smooth out a wrinkle. Her fingers are playing absentmindedly with the hair on his chest, and every now and then she emits a soft sigh of contentment. They've no need for words at the moment, and so they simply bask in the beauty of the moment.

Contrary to what they had feared, the Carsons _had_ managed to escape their hotel room at least once a day during the rest of their honeymoon. They visited the castle, which proved to be a longer excursion than they'd anticipated because Charles insisted on memorizing virtually every word their tour guide had to say about the history of the place … and there were a lot of them to be said. Still, he was in his element, and Elsie was proud to stand with him and see his interest in learning about something new. She watched him as he internalized each new piece of information, meshing it with the history about which he already had an extensive knowledge, and she wondered what he might have been like as a University student if he'd had the chance. His mind is great, and his penchant for history and tradition are unmatched by anyone else she knows.

They also spent one particularly beautiful afternoon strolling along Scarborough's main road and popping into various shops and stores. Elsie chose a few small gifts for Anna, Miss Baxter, and Mrs. Patmore, to thank them for their help with the wedding. Charles simply enjoyed watching her shop, paying close attention to the things that she would remark upon, either with a brush with her fingers or softly whispered _Ooooh_ before moving on to something else; he filed those images away for later, adding them to the ever-growing knowledge he was collecting about his wife's personal tastes, likes, and dislikes. At one of the shops, though, she found a lovely porcelain ornament - a small sheep that reminded her of growing up in Scotland; when she tucked herself into a ladies' clothing shop, Charles bowed out of accompanying her, choosing instead to head back to the previous place and purchase the ornament without her knowledge. When he gave it to her that night, she cried, commenting that she'd shed more tears in her husband's presence than she had the entire rest of her life; Charles felt this was only right, and told her so.

Their other days were spent simply enjoying the beach and the rest of their surroundings, and every night was spent in each other's arms. On two of those nights, they simply drifted off to sleep together, content enough just to be close to one another's warmth.

But today being their last full day, they'd vowed to simply stay close to the hotel. Dinner was booked in the hotel restaurant for that evening, and Charles had ordered some sandwiches to be sent up for lunchtime.

"Charlie?" Her voice is soft in the quiet of the room, and he smiles once again at the name.

"Mm?"

"I'd like to ask you something," she says. "And it's alright if you'd prefer not to answer, but it's been on my mind."

"That sounds serious."

"Not terribly," she reassures him, moving over to prop up her pillows and sit against them.

Charles rolls over on his side to face her - well, to face her side, anyhow.

"The first night we were here, you said something I don't think you meant to say," she begins, carding her fingers through his hair. "You said that you'd never done, well, any of _this_ before," she begins, waving her hand over the bed to illustrate her meaning. "You said, 'Not exactly.' Whatever did you mean?"

She feels him stiffen and regrets questioning him. They've had such a lovely week, sharing so much of themselves with one another, and the last thing she means to do is make him regret one single moment.

"It's a rather embarrassing story."

"I probably shouldn't have asked," she says immediately. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright."

He shifts a bit so that he's on his back again, and when she brushes the curl off of his forehead he reaches to clasp her fingers, bringing their hands to his chest and pressing hers over his heart before covering it with his own.

"It was with Alice, as I'm sure you've guessed," he tells her. "At least, I would certainly _hope_ you'd not have imagined there was ever anyone else."

She shakes her head but remains silent.

"We'd had quite a successful night of it, the four of us - standing ovations and all that - and her sister had insisted upon going out to a pub to celebrate a week's worth of flawless shows. Well, we were young and had our pockets full of money in those days - or so we felt, anyhow. One pub turned into two, then three, and by the time we stumbled back to our rooms we were all well past a sensible level of drunkenness. I remember they were teasing me, because I wasn't in my cups very often."

"Never since I've known you," Elsie confirms, and he nods, his prodigious eyebrows raised.

"Never since that night, I can assure you."

"Wait a moment. _Your rooms?_ You all boarded in the same house?"

"We did. It was rather unusual in those days, of course, to have men and women housed in the same place, but the building was divided, and so the house was rented for women on one side, men on the other, kitchen and parlour and a common room in the center. It's actually thanks to Alice that we even _had_ lodgings - she told Grigg about it when we needed a place to stay."

"I see," she nods.

"So anyhow, we arrived back at the rooms, and I remember we had all gone up to ours. The ladies would sneak over on occasion for one thing or another - always innocent, mind you, such as if they were helping us with a stage trick or needing an opinion on a new song, that sort of thing.

"Well, I'm ashamed to say that it wasn't long before I found myself in a rather compromising position with Alice. I've no idea where her sister or Grigg had disappeared to, but we were suddenly alone," he says, growing a bit nervous despite his wife's cool demeanor, "and half undressed."

"You never were," she whispers, astonished. "But … surely nothing like _that_ happened? Did it?"

"Well, it never got _quite_ that far _,"_ Charles is quick to clarify. "But it took quite a bit of time before I managed to stop that particular path of action. And when I did, Alice was furious with me. We had … well, it was almost too late to turn back, you see, and I think she'd been counting on following through."

"But you stopped things?" She's rather taken aback by his admission - not by the fact that he'd be so attracted to Alice as to have wanted to be with her in that way, but by the fact that, as a young man with a more than willing woman half-undressed in his arms, he had managed to pull himself back at such a late stage.

She's suitably impressed.

"I stopped it from progressing in the way _she_ had evidently intended," he clarifies, now completely mortified despite the activities to which he and Elsie had gotten up to these last few days. "I reminded her that we were drunk, and that in the morning she'd regret having gone down that path."

He's flushed scarlet, and Elsie has learned enough of the ways of the world this week to be able to divine pretty much how things _did_ finish.

She needs to say _something,_ something to ward off his unease at having almost lost control of himself so many years ago. "It would have been her first time, I presume?"

Charles goes to answer, but then stops and thinks. "In hindsight, I'm not sure about that."

"My, my," Elsie murmurs, pondering all he's said. "And you found her with Grigg …"

"Exactly one week afterward. In a more compromising, although no less mortifying, position."

"Hm."

"You do believe me, don't you?" He's suddenly unsure, wondering what Elsie has guessed at regarding his past.

"Of course I do. Although, if I may point it out, you yourself were rather _knowledgeable_ about certain things this week." She smiles softly. "I suppose I couldn't help but wonder."

"Yes, well," he says, clearing his throat, "one hears quite a few stories while treading the boards and living among theatre folk. I … paid attention."

Elsie takes his face in her hands and bends to kiss his forehead.

"All things for which, you may have realized, I am truly grateful."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

It's late, but they can't bear to simply fall asleep on the last night of their honeymoon. The window is cracked open, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore filtering in, blending with their whispered words of love and pleasure.

He's moving over and within her slowly, each of them savoring every second of this precious time before needing to return to the part of their life that involves the needs of _other_ people. Her hands are clutching at his back as she chases that wonderful feeling she's only managed to capture twice so far, and she can feel Charles struggling to hold back. Suddenly, she remembers something from their first night and pulls her leg up further, hooking a foot behind his thigh; he responds with interest, catching her leg and adjusting it a bit more, smiling when she draws in a sharp breath of pleasure.

"Better?" he asks, but she's unable to respond; it doesn't matter, because he knows it is - he can _feel_ it.

It is _infinitely_ better, and it's only a few more moments before she tumbles over the edge of oblivion once again, followed immediately by her wonderful man.

He practically collapses on her, but as he moves to lie beside her she stops him, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

"Stay. Please. Just for a moment." Elsie leans up and kisses him just underneath his Adam's apple. "I'm not ready to let you go yet."

He breathes deeply and nods, his heart full once again of all the incredible love he has for the beautiful woman in his arms.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

"I don't want to go back. Is that awful?"

She's packing the last of her things, and Charles wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her to his side.

"Not in my book. I'm not sure anymore what I thought would happen this week, but I can guarantee that this week has exceeded all my wildest imaginings." He waggles his eyebrows at her, and she smiles before swatting his chest.

"Oh, hush."

"No one would believe it. The butler and the housekeeper, making love in the afternoon." He's smug about it, but they both feel he has every right to be.

"Or _at all,"_ she quips. "Sometimes, I'm not sure I believe it myself."

"It'll be different, going back," he muses.

Her heart catches in her chest. "How so?" She can't imagine going back and losing everything she feels they've gained.

"Well," he explains, "for one, they'll never be able to call you _Mrs. Carson."_

"Whyever not?" Her own eyebrows fly up, and she can feel defensiveness stirring in her belly.

He turns her to face him and puts a calming hand to her hip, splaying his fingers over the small of her back as his thumb caresses the softness of her stomach - or what he can feel of it through her corset.

"You know how they are. They're resistant to change, and they've had quite a bit of it," he tells her.

"Well, so are _you,_ and yet here we are," she tells him, hardly mollified. "What did they _think_ would happen when we married? Anna is Anna _Bates_ now, not still Anna Smith."

It was a losing argument before she even began, and she knew it.

"But she's _Anna,_ and was never _Miss Smith._ We'll see how it goes, hm? But we're rather lucky we've been able to marry and retain our posts, and they've given us a cottage on top of that. I don't want to push our luck over something so small."

"Small to _whom?_ It's _my_ name."

Charles reaches his finger up and taps her lip. "You're pouting, Elsie. That's not like you."

"Yes, well, I just can't help but think that it took me so long to _become_ Mrs. Carson, the least people could do would be to accept it."

Her husband takes a deep, thoughtful breath. "We shall try," he acquiesces. "But it may just be easier for you to still be _Mrs. Hughes_ at work." He pulls her close, and she rests her head on his chest, his steady heartbeat soothing her. "You'll still be my Mrs. Carson at home."

"Home," she replies, tipping her head back and looking up at his face with her brilliant blue eyes. "Now _that_ sounds perfect."

Charles cups her face in his hands and kisses her chastely. "That will be different, too, going back to an entirely new place. This week has been a gift, but it's hardly our reality."

"No, I suppose it's not. We'll need time to settle in and develop a routine. I presume our things have been packed and moved, so we'll need to tackle that tonight."

"Hm, you're right. I'd not thought about that. Hopefully they don't keep us long once we get in."

"I know. I think the switch to the cottage will be easy in some ways because most of our waking hours will be spent at the Abbey, but I'm glad I'll be tucking in with you every night from now on. I don't think I'll miss my room up in the attics one bit, and it definitely wouldn't have done to share."

"Certainly not," he replies, dropping a kiss to her forehead. "I've come to love waking up and finding your arms wrapped around me, but I don't want anyone coming to fetch us in the middle of the night and _finding_ us that way."

She doesn't reply, but moves away to gather her suitcase. They've a train to catch, after all, and it won't do for her to be thinking of _all_ the ways in which she's been wrapped around her husband over the past five days.

 _He's right; they'd never believe it,_ she thinks.

He doesn't miss the blush to her cheeks, however, and as they both glance over the room one last time, taking in its luxuriousness and beauty, they each silently vow to try their very best to hold on to at least some of the magic as they return to their regular lives.

Elsie reaches over and clasps her husband's hand.

"Let's go home, Charlie."

He looks down at her, sees nothing but love and admiration in her eyes, and smiles.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, we know that the best laid plans … yeah. Onward we march toward CookingGate …**


	32. Home at Last

**A/N: Hello again. Greetings to my new readers/reviewers! Lovely having you here.**

 **Would be remiss in not thanking chelsie fan and Hogwarts Duo for continually finding (and texting to me, at my request) the typos that elude me. And a *wave* to meetmeinstlouie, my current Borg Brain friend. For some reason, we always write similar things at similar times. No infringement intended, but it gives us a laugh.**

 **Home from Scarborough in this one. Slight M toward the end.**

 **Thanks for sticking by me.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **In daylights, in sunsets**_

 _ **In midnights, in cups of coffee,**_

 _ **In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife ...**_

 _ **How do you measure, measure a life?**_

* * *

It doesn't take them very long to walk to the cottage, even taking it slowly as they've got their bags to carry from the trip. It's been a rather long day of travel, but both Charles and Elsie are wide awake after the party.

"That was a lovely welcome home, wasn't it?" Elsie asks.

"It was. I can't believe even the Dowager came down. I can't remember the last time she was below stairs."

Elsie nudges his arm with her elbow. "Of course she did; she'd not miss a chance to celebrate _you,_ after all."

"You say that like she doesn't approve of _you."_

"No, I don't mean it like that," Elsie coos, smiling at her husband. "But she has a _special_ place in her heart for _you,_ I think."

"Well, she's known me forever. It was her husband who took me back after that time in London. I think she convinced him, although I'm not sure why."

"Perhaps she knows a good, loyal man when she sees one."

Charles tilts his head with a smile in acceptance, and they finally reach the cottage.

"I've got the key right here," Elsie tells him, pulling it from her coat pocket. "Would you like to do the honors?"

There's a twinkle in his eye. "You know, I think I would."

She places the key in his palm, squeezing his hand as she does so; their eyes lock for a moment, sharing an understanding of the significance that this is _their_ home, the place they'll wake in and retire to together for the foreseeable future.

Charles turns the key in the lock and they put their bags just inside the door. Neither of them has actually _seen_ this particular cottage before, but they've seen a similar one on the estate and have some idea of what to expect.

"It's quite clean," Charles remarks, smirking at his wife.

"Of course it is," she smiles. "Anna was in charge of it all, wasn't she?"

"Yes … your protégée," he teases. "You've done well with her."

"Hogwash. She's done well for herself. Always driven, that one. I've never worked with another like her."

He extends his arm to her and draws her close. "She's just like you. I remember those early days when _you_ were the head housemaid. Just as driven, I'd say. Perhaps more."

Elsie tucks herself against his chest, sighing as he wraps his other arm around her and holds her close.

"Perhaps," she allows. "But I had a home to go back to if it all fell apart. Anna didn't, and that's the difference. She needed it _more."_

Charles nods, then drops a kiss to her head.

"We should unpack, I think. Do you think they stocked the larder?"

He feels her laugh before he hears it.

"Knowing that _you_ were going to be living here, I'm sure they did!'

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The larder is indeed stocked, and after taking a cursory tour of the cottage - interrupted by three rather chaste kisses in the doorways of each room - Elsie returns to the kitchen and plates up some cold chicken along with some cheese and fruit. There's a fresh loaf of bread, evidently from Daisy; she slices them each a piece and adds it to the rest of the food.

Charles had left instructions with Mr. Barrow to have six specific bottles of wine from his private collection sent over with their things, and he's opened one and set it out.

"I'm just going to run our cases up to the bedroom," he says. "We forgot them down here when we headed up before."

He's somewhat amazed at how nonchalantly the word _bedroom_ rolled off his tongue.

 _What a difference a year makes,_ he thinks. _From gathering the courage to ask her ... to **this.**_

As he heads for the stairs, he decides that from now on, he'll measure his life in moments just like tonight – dinners together in their home, glasses of wine in front of the fire, sunrises and sunsets enjoyed together instead of not at all.

While he's gone, Elsie arranges their plates, feeling a bit nervous – _which is ridiculous,_ she thinks, _but there it is_ – because she's setting the table and that's _his_ forte. She finds glasses for the wine and adds those to the table, and then lights the candles that someone had set in the center. The table is long, though, and after a moment she rearranges things, leaving Charles at the head of the table but moving her own things kitty-corner to his, as she sits at the Abbey. It's not anything she expects he'd allow on a normal night – it's not the way things are done, after all - but tonight she craves the informality and the closeness; after their glorious week in Scarborough, the last place she wants to sit is far away from her husband at the end of an excessively long table.

It takes Charles a few minutes to return, and when he does Elsie's happy to note he's just in his shirtsleeves, evidently having left the jacket upstairs. She cocks her head and looks at him, smiling to herself at how comfortable he seems.

"What?" He's caught her out, and she shakes her head a bit.

"You're sitting to dinner without your jacket."

"And?"

" _And_ it's only just occurred to me now that I've never sat with you at the table without you being in some sort of jacket and tie, and usually with you in full livery."

"That's not true," he contradicts, raising an eyebrow and reaching for her hand. "How quickly you forget."

"Ah," she says, nodding after a moment, remembering. "Well, with the exception of pyjamas, of course."

They eat in relative silence, each glancing about now and then to look around the place. It's been done up rather nicely, and they both enjoy how their colleagues - _No,_ Elsie thinks, _our_ _ **friends**_ \- mixed his items with hers into something that is simply _theirs:_ books side by side on the shelf, three photos from her bedroom with one from his, now over the mantle.

"I love you," she whispers suddenly, and Charles is astonished to find his wife once again struggling to contain her emotions.

"And I, you," he reassures her, his brow furrowed. He reaches over and wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye. "What's brought this on?"

"I'm not sure," she replies, giving a gentle sniff. "I think it was the talk about Anna."

There's a kindness in his eyes that soothes her - her great big blustery man, full of love for her as they're seated at the table - _their_ table, in _their_ home. She can't stop reminding herself of that.

"We _are_ very much alike, Anna and I; you're right. And part of that is that neither of us ever expected to find happiness in a life in service." She reaches over and clasps his hand across the corner of the table. "Or a husband. We're very lucky women … very lucky, indeed."

"Well," he says softly. "You're not the only ones." He squeezes her fingers and adds, "Let's clear these away and bring the rest of the wine upstairs."

Elsie allows Charles to help her clear, but then she shoos him out of the kitchen in favor of lighting fires for the nighttime instead.

"I'll be just a few minutes," she tells him, pushing playfully on his back. "Go and warm up the rest of the place, hm? It's getting chilly."

Elsie's just putting away the plates when she hears the water upstairs, and she's grateful that he's taking some time for himself, as she'd noted a bit of weariness in him earlier.

But when she crests the top stair and steps into the bedroom, she stops short, stunned.

"You've been busy," she manages to utter, although she's aware that Charles is across the hallway in the bathroom. She sees that the fire is going well. But as she walks about the bedroom, her attention is drawn to a variety of other, more amazing things.

There are candles scattered about, which are all lit and casting a shimmering, ethereal quality to the room itself. Their wine is set on the dresser, for lack of a better side table, and she sees that their suitcases sit beside the wardrobe. A peek inside of the wardrobe tells her that Charles managed to quickly unpack the valises and hang their honeymoon outfits, ready to be laundered the next day.

But it's the bed which draws the majority of her attention. He's turned it down and she notices right away that, folded over the footboard, lies the afghan she'd made for him a couple of Christmases ago. She may have missed the candles here and there when they'd come up to check the rooms earlier, but there is _no way_ she'd have missed the afghan. He clearly had it packed away to come here, and left it out intentionally.

"Oh, Charlie," she whispers.

"Yes?"

His voice is barely a murmur, but he's right behind her and she'd not heard him come in; she jumps a bit, but his hand lands on her hip and soothes her instantly.

"I can't believe you did all this in about five minutes flat," she laughs, leaning back against his chest.

"It was nothing." He leans over and places a gentle kiss to her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

"I thought you were in the bath."

"Ah," he says, chuckling. "No. That's for _you."_ He takes her hand and leads her over to the bathroom, which is filled with the scent of lavender being given off by the steaming tub full of water that he's drawn for her. "As is this," he adds, reaching for a box and handing it to her.

She takes it from him slowly, looking into his eyes and seeing a glint of mischief.

"And just when did you procure a gift for me, Mr. Carson? You've not been out of my sight for a week."

"Once again, you're forgetting something, my dear." He makes a _tut-tut_ sound with his tongue, shaking his head as he smiles at her. "I believe marriage is addling your brain."

She thinks back, and then looks up at him abruptly again. "Surely not when you got the little sheep?"

"Ah, now we've gotten there. Yes, the shopkeeper next door to _that_ one was only too happy to have _this_ sent home for me. Anna brought it with her today when she was finishing up."

Elsie sits in the chair by the tub, slides the ribbon from the box, and then pries the top off. She moves aside the tissue, quite certain that she knows what she'll find underneath.

"Oh, it's lovely," she gasps, pulling out a gorgeous, soft blue nightgown. "Thank you."

"I trust that it's the correct size," he says, blushing slightly. "I'm afraid I had to guess, but I think by that point I had a fairly good chance of getting it right."

She stands and leaves the box on the chair, then wraps her hand behind Charles's head and pulls him down for a heated kiss, allowing her tongue to graze his upper lip.

"Yes, I'm quite sure that you did."

Elsie drapes the gown over the back of the chair and then moves even closer to her husband.

"Help me with my buttons, Mr. Carson?" she purrs, placing his hands at the front of her blouse.

"Oh, it would be my pleasure, Mrs. Carson. And then we'll get you in the tub, and I'll go and fetch your glass of wine."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Tonight, it's _her_ moving over _him,_ her hair still damp and hanging in soft ringlets that frame her face.

He'd not really considered making love this way before _,_ and he's a mind to ask her where _she_ got the idea except that this is most definitely _not_ the time. He's pleased to note that it _changes_ things in a variety of ways. Charles was more than willing when she suggested it, when they were both undoubtedly feeling a bit braver from having consumed the remainder of the wine. He'd raised his eyebrows in reply as a pleasant-but-hot feeling had rushed through his body.

And now the feeling of having her sitting astride him as his hands are slipped underneath her new nightgown, cupping her breasts as she breathes heavily in unison with him … well.

He sits up a bit further and slides his hands around her waist as she hugs his body to hers. He can feel her fingernails dig into his back a little; it's the last thing he's aware of before their bliss takes them both away once again.

Later, when they've caught their breath and are cuddled up together in their new bed, Elsie finally speaks.

"It still doesn't feel real - that we're going back to work tomorrow, I mean."

"I know. I find it a bit frightening, truth be told."

She props herself up on his chest so that she can see his face. "How so?"

It takes him a minute to put it into words, but she waits; she's always been patient with him, after all.

"The livery goes back on tomorrow," he says thoughtfully. "The _butler_ returns. I'm not certain I'll be able to allow the _husband_ to live in there alongside him."

"Charles, you're not _just_ Mr. Carson." She trails her fingers over his chin, dragging her nail playfully but gently against the stubble. "If I've learned anything over this past week, it's _that."_

"No, I'm not," he agrees, tightening his hold on her. "Not with you, anyhow. But when we're there, I can't allow myself to be _Charles._ Do you understand?"

"I think so," she says slowly.

"It's different for you," he continues. "You've always been the gentler one. Strict, yes. In charge. But they know the other side of you; they know you can be thoughtful and caring when warranted."

"Oh, Charlie. They know you care."

"But they don't know me as a particularly emotional man," he says wryly. "You show that side of yourself; I don't. Not unless I'm with you."

"So what are you saying? That when we're at work, it'll be back to business as usual? No acknowledging that we've unearthed _this?"_ she asks, rubbing her hand over his heart.

"Now you're teasing me."

"A bit," she confirms, placing a kiss to his chin before tucking herself down under his arm again. "And you love it."

"Hmph."

"Don't worry about it, Charlie. It'll be a learning curve for both of us, figuring out how to make it all work. But it'll be a learning curve for _them,_ too. No one knows how to navigate this; not yet. We'll sort it out when we're actually there."

She places another kiss to his chest, and he sighs softly.

"I suppose you're right."

"You _know_ I am," she pushes back. "Now, if it's all the same to you, I wouldn't mind nodding off while listening to my _husband's_ heartbeat."

She doesn't look up again, but she feels his nod in the movements of his body.

Glancing over at his nightstand, she sees something propped up against the lamp - a slip of paper, which she recognizes immediately as the nametag from his door, the slight slip of parchment upon which is written _'_ _Mr. Carson.'_

She should have known he'd take it.

 _The butler and the husband, together under this roof if not under the other.  
_

* * *

 **A little review would make my day - thanks! x**


	33. Amazed

**A/N: I know these are coming fast 'n furious, but my goal is to finish this story by the end of the week. I appreciate all the lovely reviews - keep them coming, lol! :) But please do watch the chapters and be sure you've not missed any along the way.**

 **I did promise CookingGate was coming. This is my own take on what could have happened off-screen between the segments we saw. I have my own opinions about that entire scenario ... and they don't all involve Charles holding all the fault. Ahem.**

 **And ... well, the next thing after the honeymoon WASN'T CookingGate, either. So yeah ... full chapter.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Maybe I'm a man and maybe I'm a lonely man**_

 _ **Who's in the middle of something**_

 _ **That he doesn't really understand.**_

 _ **Maybe I'm a man and maybe you're the only woman**_

 _ **Who could ever help me.**_

 _ _ **Baby won't you help me understand ...**__

* * *

 _ **May, 1925**_

The sun begins its climb over the hill much too soon the next morning, but Elsie has been awake for at least an hour. She should be exhausted, and she knows it'll catch up to her around midday when things are in full swing and she's finally got her head wrapped around what happened in her absence.

 _Still,_ she thinks with a smile, _it will be worth it._

Charles emits a soft grumble in his sleep, and she can tell from his movements that he's nearly awake. Still, when he turns toward her and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, she complies willingly, allowing them to remain like that for another ten minutes before nudging his shoulder.

"Charlie," she says softly, placing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "We need to get up."

"We don't have to be there for breakfast," he mumbles.

"But you _wanted_ to be," she reminds him gently. She sits up in the bed beside him and trails her hand lovingly up and down his bare arm. "You're the one who feels as though he's been away for _months."_

He cracks his eyes open and sees the smirk on her face.

"You know I didn't mean that _quite_ the way it sounded," he tells her sheepishly.

"I do know."

She leans over for a lingering kiss but pulls herself away from him before it can become anything more.

"I'm going to wash up and dress. Would you mind banking the fire downstairs?"

"Not at all," he sighs.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

They do make it in time for staff breakfast, arriving to a round of applause once again. Mr. Barrow graciously moves from the seat at the head of the table to the one he used to occupy, and Charles nods his thanks before addressing them all.

"Mrs. Hughes and I would like to thank you all for the lovely welcome yesterday," he says. He doesn't notice Elsie cringe slightly at the use of her old name.

"It was our pleasure, Mr. Carson." Anna's voice is clear and happy, and Charles gives her a smile and a nod of thanks.

"I'd like to offer my thanks to Mr. Barrow, who graciously stepped in for me in my absence." He nods to the under butler, who gives a cursory nod in return.

"And my thanks to you, Anna," Elsie adds. "Mr. Carson and I would like to meet with the both of you following breakfast - once you've seen to your other duties, of course."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," Anna answers; Mr. Barrow is silent, but his compliance is understood as they sit and begin their breakfast.

Elsie accidentally bumps Charles's knee under the table and sees him jump; she scoots her chair a smidgen to the right, hoping to prevent it from happening again.

Just that one touch sends a shiver through her body. She'll have to keep her wits about her or it will be a very long day, indeed.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

 _ **Two weeks later**_

Charles closes the doors to the Abbey slowly, the horrible scene from dinner replaying endlessly in his mind. He feels as if the doors weigh more than they normally do, and all he wants to do now is run back to the cottage with Elsie and lock the door on the rest of the world.

When he turns around, he's surprised to see Molesley standing there waiting for him; the younger man says nothing, but Charles appreciates the sentiment.

The wait for the phone call is interminable, and not even Elsie can soothe Charles as he sits and stares at the phone. She's brought him coffee but it remains untouched, and he's grateful to hear her pottering about outside in the corridor, chatting with the staff and ensuring that they all have tasks with which to remain as occupied as possible.

But the work runs out eventually, and they're forced to simply wait.

It's another hour before the phone rings, bringing the blessed news that his Lordship has survived, has had an operation, and is recuperating in hospital. Charles practically flies to the servants' hall to tell them all, and he doesn't miss the relief written all over his wife's face.

Elsie watches him as he relays the last of the information, steering the staff into tomorrow (or, more accurately, later _today)_ with some idea of what to expect. She sees now, perhaps for the first time, the value in Charles's recognizing that he needs to separate Mr. Carson, the butler, from Charles, the husband. She tried to comfort him earlier and he refused, and she'd understood instantly.

 _But now it's time to pack away my butler for the night,_ she thinks, _and bring my husband home._ She takes his elbow and leads him back to his pantry as the staff are dispersing, ready to leave and help him to transform back into the person he keeps hidden deep inside, the one who has unfathomable love for not only his wife but also for the family which he's served with such caring and dedication these past several decades.

He breaks down as soon as the cottage door closes behind them. Elsie shushes him with loving whispers and gentle touches, kissing away his tears as she helps him out of his overcoat and jacket and guides him to the chair by the fireplace. She nips into the kitchen and pours him a healthy measure of whiskey, which he downs in two sips before pulling her into his lap.

She wraps him up in her embrace, peppering soft kisses to the top of his head as he weeps into her shoulder. He never says a word, but she doesn't really need him to.

Half an hour later they're in bed, her cradling his head to her bosom once again as they try to snatch a couple hours' sleep before making the trek back to the Abbey.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

 _ **July, 1926**_

"Elsie? Is everything alright in there?"

The sounds from the kitchen are angry and loud, and Charles is watching from his relatively safe vantage point in the parlour.

She blows a stray hair off of her damp forehead. "It's fine, Charles!"

 _It's clearly_ _ **not**_ _fine._

He realizes she's upset, but he has no idea why. Dinner wasn't _that_ awful, really. It was better this time around, although she'd had a bit less to prepare. He thinks that if Mrs. Patmore gives her just a couple more lessons then things will be quite good, indeed.

And then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, he's certain he knows why his wife is currently slamming cabinets and drawers in their kitchen.

 _She must be tired,_ he thinks, and he vows to do something about it in the morning. Perhaps he'll bring her a pot of tea, take one of her tasks off her list of things to do.

However, the morning brings no chance for improvement. They're nearly run off their feet the next three days and are taking all their meals at the Abbey simply because they've not had a chance to go home before the dinner hour. On the fourth day, however, they have a bit of a break.

But by the end of the day it appears she's hurt her hand somehow … and she's informing him that _he_ will need to prepare their meal tonight.

He does fine at first, despite the rapid-fire instructions she gave him at the start. The baking dish is quite heavier than he'd suspected and he almost drops it before saving the thing, but the chicken ends up in the oven around when it's supposed to. Having no idea really what to do with the potatoes, he finally asks for a bit of help, which she provides via more rapid-fire verbal instruction as she sits safely at the table, where no more harm can come to her.

Charles is astonished at how much effort goes into preparing the meal, and he even manages to speak at one point amidst all of the frenetic moving about the kitchen.

"How does Mrs. Patmore manage this three times a day for twenty people or more?"

Elsie sniggers as she hears his mumbled, awestruck realization, but she doesn't bother to try and answer.

At the end of the whole ordeal, he thinks it's a miracle that he's managed to ruin only the potatoes. The rest of their dinner is quite well turned out, indeed, and Elsie seems content to eat most of it. She murmurs that he might even cook more often.

He'd argue, except he's too tired to do so.

The dirty dishes by the sink are calling to him, their song only slightly drowned out by the even more tempting cry of the large, comfortable bed that awaits him when he's finished.

Elsie is tucked into bed reading when Charles finally mounts the stairs. He leans against the doorjamb and watches her for a moment; something about how she's sitting is niggling at his brain, fluttering just out of his reach.

She looks up at him, blinking a few times as she adjusts her vision, well aware that she'll be needing spectacles for reading within the next year. She reaches for the bookmark and closes it in the pages, then places the book on her nightstand.

 _Ohhh …_ It comes to him in an instant.

"I've been a bloody fool," he spits out.

As he thinks back over the comments he's made over the past few weeks, things about bubble and squeak, raw chops, how they perhaps need a maid to do things properly when his wife is, in fact, a _housekeeper,_ he realizes that the storm which has been slowly escaping from Elsie these past several weeks is mostly _his_ fault.

"You're not truly hurt, are you?"

She draws her lip underneath her teeth and tilts her head at him.

"Well, my _wrist_ is fine, Charles."

"You deceived me." He walks into the room, taking his pyjamas from the drawer and crossing over to the bathroom without another word. In truth, he's too tired to hash it out tonight, but he knows he'll not escape it … he just needs a few moments to wrap his head around the fact that he's been tricked.

Elsie hears the faint sound of the water as he washes and brushes his teeth, and her guilt increases with each minute. She's not sure now _why_ she deceived him so, she only knows that she _was_ hurt and that she thought it best to let Mrs. Patmore solve her problem for her.

 _Which is really not how marriage should work._

They'd made so much progress in such a short time, and she wonders now how they managed to take about a million steps _back_ in the short time since they'd returned from Scarborough; with a frustrated, tired sigh she flops onto her side and pulls the blanket tightly around herself.

He comes back in and climbs into the bed beside her, yawning widely as she reaches to turn off the light and then resumes her position on her pillow.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her back to him.

He's lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He still doesn't want to talk about it all now, not at this late hour and not as tired as he is, but he'll never sleep unless they air out at least part of it.

He stretches his arm over toward her side of the bed and lands his hand somewhere on her hip; a breath he hadn't realized he was holding is released when she places her own hand over his and squeezes gently.

"I am, too. I think I've got the measure of things now. But, Elsie, why didn't you _say_ anything?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not sure, really. I've not been in the position of being criticized in that way for quite a long time."

He turns toward her. "I don't think I meant it all the way you took it," he says.

"Probably not," she allows. "But it was criticism nonetheless. Nothing was good enough for you, Charlie - not the food nor the cleanliness of the cottage nor the corners on the damned sheets. After a while, it became overwhelming."

She rolls over to face him. "How was I _supposed_ to interpret all of that? I can't read your mind."

His eyes roam her face, and she can see the sadness in his eyes.

"I didn't mean it like that," he repeats. "And I'm truly sorry for having upset you so. I'm new at this husband thing, you know."

She barks out a laugh; it's a harsh sound in the stillness of the room, and it startles him.

"Yes, you are. I believe the butler came home with me a few too many times, perhaps." She heaves another deep sigh. "And I'm new at being a wife, Charlie. I suppose that I expected a bit of leniency in our own home. You're not the only one who goes to the Abbey and puts in a long day, wanting to come home to a quiet, easy meal."

"I know," he reassures her, scooting closer. "But you should have just told me you couldn't cook. Why the pretense?"

"I thought I could," she tells him. "Mrs. Patmore told me the first time that 'things would need a bit of warming' - I didn't realize until we got home they weren't yet cooked _at all._ And then any subsequent meals were nearly as bad - complicated, I think, and I grew up on things much more simple. And it has been forty years since I've tried anything resembling _any_ of the meals she sent home! I should have asked her for help, but she was already irritated we weren't eating there, and I suppose I didn't want to make it worse."

"Well, I've learned my lesson," he says wryly, yawning again. "I'm exhausted!"

"I know."

It's awkward for a moment as they stare at one another, each unsure of where they stand.

Elsie gives in first, partially out of pity and partially out of a desire to have her _husband_ back again.

"C'mere, Charlie," she whispers, opening her arms to him. "Let's get some rest."

His face broadens into a tired smile as he moves down in the bed a bit and cuddles up against her side, feeling wonderful as he's tucked into her embrace.

"I love you, darling," he says. "I know I don't often say it, and lately I've been poor at showing you, but I do."

She tips her head forward and kisses his temple.

"I love you, too, you daft man," she replies. "And, for what it's worth, I expect you to make that crumble again sometime soon. It was delicious."

She feels his smile where his face is tucked against her bosom, and not ten minutes later they're both fast asleep.

* * *

 **Would love to know what you thought! Bet some of you forgot all about the Red Dinner. I know I did at first. x**


	34. Searching for Peace

**A/N: Second only to the honeymoon (from which you ALL wanted to see off-screen scenes), this is the one bit that _I_ truly wished had been shown in canon. It's a short chapter, but one that I really wish we had.**

 _ **T/W: Suicide attempt aftermath.**_

 **Thanks again to all of you for your steadfast reviews, especially the guests to whom I cannot reply directly.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

" _ **You're my favorite place to go when my mind searches for peace."**_

 _ **~Unknown**_

Once again, Charles finds himself standing in a doorway and contemplating his wife.

He's certain she's not aware that he's there. Everything about her countenance tells him that she is miles away in her own mind: her slight slouch in her chair, how she's staring off in the distance at what seems to be nothing; how her forearms aren't resting on her desk as if she were mid-thought while working, but rather are draped over the arms of the chair, a pen clutched loosely in her hand.

Charles recognizes that pen; she's nicked it from his desk. The thought would have made him upset before they were married, but now it just makes him shake his head in slight amusement.

Mrs. Patmore comes by, but one look at the butler as he stands and stares at his wife tells her all she needs to know - that the tea she was going to offer wouldn't be welcomed, and neither would her intrusion. She lays a hand on his arm, squeezes it briefly as a show of her support, and returns to the kitchen.

He enters the sitting room, quite surprised that Elsie still doesn't appear to sense his presence now that the sound of his footsteps has been added to the scenario. A tilt of his head affords him a slightly better view of her face, and he's surprised to see it bone dry, having fully expected a river of tears to be pouring down it.

A hand laid on her shoulder rouses her, but she doesn't turn. Instead, she brings her hand up to where his rests and lays hers on top.

Her cuffs are still damp from helping to get Mr. Barrow out of the tub.

"Elsie? Are you going to be able to finish those? I'd be happy to- "

" _No._ I'll do them."

Charles glances at the invoices strewn about her desk. They've not moved since he handed them to her earlier this afternoon. Of course, that feels like a year ago now.

He licks his lips. "Doctor Clarkson will ring soon. We're leaving just after dinner to go home." He pauses, then adds, "Neither of us are up for preparing a meal tonight, I think."

She just nods, patting his hand again before licking her lips and focusing on the papers at her desk.

Charles squeezes her shoulders and bends down, placing a gentle kiss to her temple.

"You know where I'll be," he murmurs.

She turns to him and gives a half-hearted smile. Her eyes are pools of fear and sorrow, but he sees in them that she's at least understood what he's said.

He tilts his head, then squeezes her shoulders again and heads to his pantry.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

When they finally manage to leave for the cottage, she seems a bit more herself. Charles is wary the entire walk home, thinking that this must be how _she_ was feeling walking by his side when his Lordship was rushed to the hospital.

He reaches over and takes her hand.

"Hello there," he says when she looks enquiringly at him.

"Hello," she whispers, and she feels him press his fingertips to her palm.

They get in and she removes her hat and coat, hanging them on the coat rack by the door before making her way silently to the parlour, where she starts piling kindling into the fireplace.

"I'll do that," Charles says, laying a hand on her back as she's hunched over.

"Alright."

She's still miles away, and she can't manage to pull herself together for any sort of meaningful conversation.

All she sees, no matter where she looks, is _red._

The red of the pillow on her settee, which she'd been mending a hole in when Andy burst through her door.

Red on Andy's cheeks, and the deeper red of his mouth as he was relaying the brief message:

' _It's Mr. Barrow. Come quickly. And we need the doctor."_

Red tiles in the bathroom, shining almost angrily.

The red in the tub, the way it was clinging to the side of the porcelain …

She claps a hand over her mouth and bolts for the bathroom.

Charles follows a couple of steps behind, hearing her retch just as he rounds the corner of the bathroom; he sees her fling a hand behind herself to ward him off, but he's having none of it. She's cared for him more times than he can recall when _he_ was ill, and there are so few times when she needs help from him.

Realizing that he's still there, that he's not run from her display of weakness, provides Elsie the strength she needs to pull herself together.

"I'm sorry about that," she rasps, and Charles finds a cloth, dampens it, and hands it to her to wipe her mouth.

"Please don't be," he soothes as he rubs her back. "Do you feel better?"

She stands up straight and turns to him, nodding.

"I think so, yes."

Her voice cracks, and Charles puts and arm around her and pulls her closer, resting his cheek on her head.

"Deep, steady breaths," he advises.

When she's calmed a bit, Charles fills a glass of water for her.

"Drink this slowly," he advises, and he moves behind her to begin unpinning her hair.

"You don't have to do that, Charles. I can manage."

He peers around her head and looks her in the eyes.

"Humor me."

Her sideways smirk reassures him. As he pulls the pins from her hair and then loosens and begins to brush it, he can feel her relaxing before him.

"I can't plait it," he admits, and she laughs.

"No, I wouldn't think you could. Perhaps I'll teach you one day."

"I'd like that."

She turns and cups his cheek with her hand. "Thank you. Just give me a few moments, please."

He closes the door behind himself and Elsie turns back toward the mirror as she plaits her hair. She brushes her teeth and finishes her evening preparations, and when she finally exits the bathroom she finds their bed turned down, a single candle lit on the nightstand bathing the room in soothing, flickering light.

Charles lays a hand on her hip as he passes her on his way into the bathroom, and when he returns moments later she's feeling much calmer, indeed.

He climbs in the bed beside her and she rolls on her side, allowing him to spoon her from behind and wrap her petite frame in his much larger embrace. She grabs his arm and hugs it to herself, and finally begins to speak.

"It was so horrible, Charlie. I'd never seen anything like it, and I saw some horrid things on the farm when I was a girl. But this was so much worse …"

"Because you care for him," Charles mused, placing gentle kisses to her hair. "Because we _all_ care for him."

His voice catches and she hears it for what it is: self-loathing for how he's treated the under butler, making him feel unwanted, uncared for.

"It's not your fault," she says, squeezing his arm more tightly. "It was not any one thing that we have done that caused this. He's just always been so alone, no matter what we tried."

"Not alone," Charles clarifies. "Lonely."

A long silence. "Yes. You're right. But _he_ never saw a difference, did he?"

The candle is burning down, the light growing dimmer.

"Well, the doctor's report was good. Mr. Barrow will be back in a couple of days. Of course, then I suppose his Lordship will want to make a decision," Elsie tells him.

"Lady Mary won't want to let him go now," Charles says sagely. "Master George is quite fond of him."

"Imagine that," Elsie teases gently.

"Mr. Barrow is very good with him."

"Aye, he is," she says, turning to face him. "Just like you have a soft spot for the lad's mother."

Charles cradles her face in his hand and places a kiss to her lips, one which lingers and grows warmer and more passionate as the seconds go by.

"Charlie," she whispers, breaking away as her fingers move to his buttons, undoing them with practiced ease as she kisses him again. As soon as the buttons are undone, she's pushing his shirt open … kissing her way from his mouth down his jaw, over his collarbone, and on the way to his heart.

His hands land on her hips, and lower, and he pauses, asking the silent question.

"Yes," she confirms. "Please, love."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

They collapse in a sated heap, their bodies tangled. The candle has gone out, and the room is pitch black as they'd not yet lit a fire in the hearth.

"Thank you," she whispers into his neck.

"My pleasure," he murmurs back. "That was … unexpected."

"I know. I think … ah, I don't know what I was thinking."

"I do," he replies. "You needed to remind yourself that we're _alive."_

"Hmm," she hums, already dozing off. "Perhaps."

He shifts her over a bit. "I've got to start the fire, Els, or you'll freeze tonight."

It takes quickly, and he's back in bed almost immediately; Elsie scoots back over to him and lets him envelop her once again in his arms.

"Do you want your nightdress?" he asks, but she shakes her head.

"No, I'll be alright. I just need you, love."

"I'm right here," he whispers to her.

She yawns and then lifts her head to kiss him once more.

"I know," she tells him. "And I love you for that."

* * *

 **As always, I'd love to know what you thought. x**


	35. Shades of Silver and Gold

**A/N: Next to the last chapter. I appreciate those of you who have left reviews, and I apologize for the deluge as I strive to get this done to make way for Christmas things.**

 **While it was not at all my plan originally, I realized upon rereading this that it fits the tumblr chelsie-prompt challenge of "Silver and Gold," and so it's titled accordingly. So weird!**

 **Thanks again to you all - your support and reviews and general love have made this story a joy to write.**

 **xx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

" _ **Love is the only gold."**_

 _ **~Alfred Lord Tennyson**_

 _ **Early December, 1925**_

It's a cold, blustery morning at the cottage. Charles can hear Elsie down in the kitchen, humming a Christmas tune as she finishes preparing their breakfast. He smiles at the sound, but then the corners of his mouth drift downward again as he struggles with his topmost button.

He drops his hands and counts to ten, then begins to firmly massage his right wrist. It never works as well as when Elsie does it, but after a minute or two the tremors cease enough for him to finish dressing; necktie secured and jacket pulled on, he gives the mirror one final glance and heads down to eat.

Elsie pours him a hot cup of tea and plates his food, laying it on the table in front of him.

"How are you this morning?" she asks, bending to kiss his temple.

"Fair to middling, I'd say," he admits, and the faint tremor that lingers betrays him even now as a spot of tea sloshes over the edge of his cup. "Damn," he adds in a whisper.

"The cold doesn't help, I'm sure," she says quietly.

He looks over at her, but she's busied herself with spreading some jam on her toast.

"No," he agrees. "It doesn't."

They pass the meal in silence, recognizing that they'll need to rush through breakfast if they're to allow extra time for negotiating what's sure to be a road spotted with silvery, icy patches on their way to the Abbey.

The dishes are done quickly, with Charles washing and Elsie drying and putting them away; they'd switched roles a couple of weeks ago after losing yet another teacup to his tremor.

"Do you have much going on today?" Elsie asks as they're donning their coats. She buttons hers quickly and then turns to do up his as he's putting on his gloves.

"Wine delivery at eleven," Charles replies, dropping a kiss of thanks to her lips. "Meeting with Mr. Bates about his Lordship's upcoming travel, but that won't take more than five minutes."

"Tea with your wife, perhaps?"

"Hmm," he teases. "I'll see if I can squeeze her in."

"You'd better," Elsie tells him as she slides the key in the lock. "I hear she can be quite the dragon."

 **oOoOoOoOo**

The rest of the week passes smoothly, and Charles is thrilled on Friday when he and Elsie have their shared day off. They chose to have breakfast in their pyjamas as a way of making the lovely morning linger on just a bit more, and now he's nearly finished tidying the kitchen as Elsie gets ready for the day.

As he wipes the table, he thinks of how grateful he is that Elsie knows about his tremors, how it's been a blessing he'd never expected. He'd been so embarrassed by it all at the start - imagine a butler who couldn't manage to even pour a glass of wine! But the husband inside had been even _more_ embarrassed when he'd tried lying about it to his wife.

He's honestly not sure how much longer he'll be able to manage doing his job, but having Elsie in his corner is worth more than he ever could have thought possible.

" _I'm your wife. I love you; your secrets are safe with me."_

He hears her words repeatedly in his mind. They have become a welcome companion, the score to what he thinks of as his _new_ life, the one lived with the knowledge that she loves him, that they share their secrets now, keeping one another's hearts safe from danger. And while Charles is rational and knows that they can't possibly protect themselves from _everything_ life throws at them, they've decided to take each day as it comes.

 _And it's working well so far._

This morning his hands are quiet, a likely result of their passionate Thursday night. He's not mentioned his suspicions aloud, but he'd be surprised if Elsie isn't aware of how that type of activity seems to still the tremors for a time. And while things in that department have calmed a bit since the honeymoon, mostly due to their mutual fatigue at the end of a long day, he's still managed to notice a connection.

Charles hears the water drain from the tub upstairs just as he's returning the sugar bowl to its rightful place on the shelf, and his mind trails off for a moment as he contemplates his wife's pinked skin as she climbs out of the water …

 _Poor timing, old man._ He shakes his head for a bit and turns to finish the rest of the cleanup.

A gentle touch to the side of the toaster proves it's cooled enough to put away, and he picks it up and places it in the kitchen cabinet. Looking at the blue paper with which Elsie so carefully lined those shelves, he smiles. He remembers the first time he'd seen the toaster, and how he'd thought she'd be burning the entire house down around their heads before long.

He glances toward the ceiling and realizes Elsie's just making her way back to the bedroom, likely wrapped in only her dressing gown … or perhaps, if she was too warm, even just her towel.

With another glance at the toaster, Charles is thankful for how very far they've come; he goes in search of his wife, wondering if he can convince her that they don't _really_ need to walk into town today after all.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Later that night, as the fire crackles in the hearth, Elsie looks up from her book and glances out the window.

"Oh, Charles," she whispers, reaching her hand to touch his knee and get his attention. "Look!"

He peers out and smiles at the sight of gently-falling snow.

"It looks as though you'll have your snowy Christmas," he murmurs, closing his own book and putting his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "Farm girl 'til the end."

"Aye, but it's so magical."

She thinks back to a few Christmases ago and nudges his shoulder with her head. "Do you remember the night when you came out and found me in the snow?"

"Of course," he replies softly. "I think of it often."

"Me, too."

He chuckles. "I wanted so badly to kiss you that night, you know."

She turns under his arm, her head tilted back to look him in the eyes. "Did you?" she asks, astonished.

"I did," he confirms, his eyebrows raised with mirth. "You were a vision; it was a perfect moment in time. Your eyes were bright, your face was pink from the cold, and the snow was glistening on your hair and shawl. I remember reaching to brush it off, and I was rather proud of myself for not simply leaning over and kissing you."

"I wish you had," she tells him frankly.

"Oh, I don't know," he muses. "I rather like the way we did things. It was like courting you, in a way. In _my_ way, I suppose."

She hums in agreement, trailing her fingers through the silver hair at his temples.

"It was perfect." She leans up and kisses him softly. "I've loved our life together, Charlie. Both the past _and_ the present moments - all of it."

"Even the cooking ones?" he asks sheepishly, and she laughs.

"Yes, even those. We were learning together, weren't we? That's how other couples manage it; we just went about it a bit more slowly at the start of our run."

"I'm rather looking forward to these _next_ thirty years you've spoken of," he says lovingly, leaning his face into her palm.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?" she whispers.

"It _will_ be wonderful," he says. "Regardless of my shaking hands or anything else, I've never been as happy as I am now. And if _I'm_ looking forward to the future, that's a sure sign that this marriage is working quite well, indeed."

Her laughter is light and merry, and as she moves her hand, Charles sees the firelight glinting off of her wedding band. He clasps her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it.

"Shall we go up?" he asks, and she nods.

He takes her hand as they walk to the kitchen, leaving their empty sherry glasses on the counter before heading upstairs.

Elsie takes Charles's hands and undoes his shirt cuff buttons, kissing his wrists as she does so before moving to the rest of his buttons. She slowly peels the shirt off of him; he in turn helps with the buttons on her dress, placing kisses to her skin as he reveals it with each unbuttoning.

They climb into bed and snuggle up together, with many more kisses, caresses, and soft words eventually lulling them into a deep sleep, one full of sweet dreams of many more Christmases to come.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed it, and a review would be very much appreciated if you have the time and inclination. x**


	36. When the Kaleidoscope Twists

**A/N: This is the final chapter for this fic. Anyone looking for a sequel could, at batwings79's suggestion earlier on, perhaps check out my other fic, "A Husband's Love." That was never meant to be a sequel to this, but it works well as one. It just doesn't follow canon as it's an imagined S7 fic.**

 **My thanks to all of the lovely reviewers, and a shout out to the new guest reviewer who called me "Chelsie." Your comments are sweet, indeed. I can assure you I'm** _ **not at all**_ **a professional writer … just a teacher from the US who has a love for our darling Carsons. But I *would* have replied had you an account here. :)**

 **There is a song list for this story, and I'll publish it as a separate chapter in a day or two. It will NOT contain more story information, so don't get _too_ excited when it shows up in your Inbox. **

**Much love,  
CSotA**

* * *

 _ **There's a time for everyone, if they only learn**_

 _ **That the twisting kaleidoscope moves us all in turn …**_

 _ **An enchanted moment and it sees me through;**_

 _ **It's enough for this restless warrior just to be with you.**_

 _ **Can you feel the love tonight?**_

* * *

 ** _January, 1926_**

"Here's another one that Mr. Barrow found for you." Elsie walks into her husband's pantry with a sturdy, empty box, placing it on his desk.

Charles has just finished filling the one next to it, and he reaches for the string to tie it shut.

"Here," Elsie says quietly, "you hold the lid down and I'll tie it."

She looks up and sees him nod, but he can't manage to speak just yet. Packing up his office has been much harder for him than he'd imagined, and he's not even halfway through yet.

"Can I help you with any of it, Charlie?"

When he looks at her, she's niggling her lip with worry. It reminds him that he's not the only one who will have to deal with his no longer being the butler at the Abbey; Elsie will likely walk into this room countless times a day in those first few weeks, only to see another man seated behind the desk.

He reaches for her face and gently loosens the lip with his thumb, and she leans into his touch.

"I forget it's difficult for you, too," he whispers, and she nods, her eyes glistening. "Would you mind doing that table?" he asks, pointing behind where she's standing.

"I'd be glad to."

"Here," he says, handing her the box she'd just brought in. "I need to check on a few things upstairs, and I'll have Andrew find a few more boxes for me when I see him."

She nods, stands on her tiptoes to place a kiss to his cheek, and smiles.

"Go on, then," she says. "I'll be here when you get back."

But by the time Charles returns, Elsie's no longer there after all. He notes that the table she'd worked on is not only completely empty but has been wiped down, too, and he sees not one but _two_ boxes holding its contents on the floor.

He heads into the corridor to find her, finally locating her in her sitting room.

"There you are."

"Oh, I'm sorry; I needed to take care of this," she replies, not turning.

Charles sees her filling out a cheque for one of the house accounts, and he waits.

"There," she mutters, turning. "I apologize for abandoning you; in the confusion with the wedding, I forgot about that invoice."

"That's not like you," he says, and she nods.

"I know, but it's settled now."

Charles takes the empty chair by her desk and touches the teapot that rests between them; finding it still hot (and two empty cups next to it), he pours for each of them while she watches.

The tremor is rather pronounced, but he manages; it pains her to watch him struggle, embarrassed, but she can't think of anything to say to him to make it better.

"Here you are," he says, smiling as he hands her the cup and saucer.

"Thank you."

He sits back and sips his own, grateful for Mrs. Patmore's foresight at having brought the tray.

"I should be finished by four," he tells Elsie quietly.

She looks up, studying his face. "That's early."

"I know. I need to go through the wine next, and mark those that are my own personal collection. Mr. Barrow has promised to have them boxed and sent to the cottage next week. But there's not much left to the pantry now."

"Well, you've likely already got your wine in its own spot," she says lightly, "so that'll take about five minutes. "Why not spend some time up in the nursery after? I'm sure Nanny won't mind, and the children would love to see you."

"Hm, perhaps I shall."

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

"We'll still be seeing you next week, won't we?"

Charles looks down at Mr. Bates's outstretched hand and shakes it firmly.

"You will, although I don't expect I'll be the focus of your attentions then. Many congratulations once again, Mr. Bates."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." The younger man is positively beaming, and Charles is honored that he would take time from being by his wife's side to come down and join the little going away gathering in the servants' hall.

"Please tell Anna I'll be up to see her tomorrow afternoon," Elsie adds. "And that she'd better still be resting."

"You can go back up now if you'd like, Mrs. Hughes," the valet says with another smile. "He was quite taken with you, I think."

"No, but thank you," she replies. "Anna needs her rest, and we really need to be getting on home soon." She brushes Charles's arm with her own, and he nods in agreement.

Daisy comes out to wish them a tearful goodbye, followed by Miss Baxter, Mrs. Patmore, and eventually Mr. Barrow, who shakes Charles's hand firmly.

"We'll see you next week, Mr. Carson," he says. "And if I may say so, I believe I'm finally ready to actually _be_ the butler … thanks to you. I appreciate everything you've done for me, and I'm grateful that you'll be staying on to assist for the foreseeable future."

Charles is nearly overcome. He swallows with some difficulty, managing to get himself under enough control to reply.

"It may sound strange, Mr. Barrow, but I only agreed to stay on in that capacity because I _agree_ that you are ready. I have no doubt that I'm handing over this position to someone who's learned how to approach it with dedication and care."

He pauses, then adds, "You have the support of his Lordship, Lady Mary, and Master George." He smiles. "That's quite a team on your side."

"And don't forget to add me to that list, Mr. Barrow," Elsie says quietly. "I'll see you tomorrow, and we'll begin to get you settled in."

"Thank you," he nods. "Alright, I understand from Mr. Branson that your things are packed into the car and that it's outside the servants' entrance, waiting for you."

Charles nods, looking around at all of their faces once again.

He'll be returning next week, but it won't be the same ... and everyone in the room knows it.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Elsie changes into her nightclothes quickly and then dashes downstairs as Charles heads into the bathroom after her. She pours them each a healthy dose of brandy - a gift from Lady Edith to thank them for all their hard work pulling her wedding celebration together - and carries them to the parlour. She stokes the fire and adds two logs, then takes her seat on the settee to wait for Charles.

It takes him nearly half an hour to come down and join her. She has half a mind to go up and see what was keeping him, but she knows.

"Elsie, I can't find a few things that I believe you packed." His voice sounds from just behind her, and she smiles and moans delightedly as his hands land on her shoulders, massaging them slightly.

"That's heavenly, Charlie," she murmurs. "You really are very good with your hands."

"You should know," he replies softly, _much_ closer now so that his lips brush her ear, the sensation making her shiver.

"I do."

He continues to massage the tension from her shoulders until she reaches back and pats one of his hands with hers.

"Come and sit, Charles."

He complies, and she hands him a snifter.

"To you, my darling husband. The best butler that house has ever, or _will_ ever, see."

He clinks his glass to hers. "Thank you, love. That does mean a lot to me."

"Are you glad you'll still be popping in now and again?" She's genuinely curious, thinking that if it were her, she'd prefer to make a clean break.

"Only because you'll be there," he admits, reaching for her hand and lacing their fingers together. "I'll miss having you in the next room all day."

"Well, you can come up and see me whenever you wish, you know." She scoots over and snuggles up to his side, then reaches behind her and pulls down the afghan on the settee - _his_ afghan, which they now keep in the parlour for cuddling by the fire on nights just like this. Spreading it out over their laps, she looks up and smiles at him.

"You asked about a few missing items," she reminds him. "I'm guessing they are the small frame with the photo of your father, two books that you read rather often, your favourite pen, and that silly fish."

His eyes widen. "Precisely, but how ...?"

"They're in my sitting room," she tells him. "Along with your chair and a small desk that Andrew procured from the attics."

His lips open in surprise; no words are forthcoming, and he ends up staring at her.

"Charles?" She's a bit uncomfortable now, worried he may be displeased.

"Thank you," he whispers. "I'd not even considered a space in which to work."

"Well," she tells him, "I did. I hope it suits, and that you'll not mind sharing."

He reaches up and touches a finger underneath her chin, drawing her in for a tender kiss.

"How could I mind? Here I was, wondering whatever I'd do without you by my side every day."

Elsie reaches for their glasses and places them on the table, then turns and gingerly climbs into her husband's lap, straddling his thighs.

Charles closes his eyes and sighs happily as her fingers run through the hair at his temples; he tilts his head back in preparation for the kiss he knows is coming.

When her lips touch his, it's softly at first - tentative, as if this were their first kiss and not simply one on a list of hundreds that have come before; he pushes back with a little force, encouraging her, and before long it grows more heated, more typical of the ones they usually share on the settee in front of a roaring fire.

He laces his fingers at the small of her back and she breaks away from him, her hands still cupping the sides of his face.

"I've never been more proud of you, nor loved you more than I do today," she whispers.

Her eyes are a startling color of blue, and it takes his breath away.

"You've managed this entire experience with the style and grace with which you manage everything else, and while I would have worried about you retiring alone one day, I find that I have every confidence in your being just fine now."

A tear creeps out of his eye, and Elsie brushes it away with her thumb before several more fall.

"I shall endeavour to try," he whispers, "but I won't pretend it'll be easy. You may be sick of me before the next week is out, I'll be haunting your office so much."

"Never," she reassures him. "And I thank you for agreeing that I should stay on."

"I'd hate to have tried to talk you out of it. You're not ready yet, love, and there's nothing wrong with that."

He tilts his head forward until his forehead rests against hers.

"The butler could never have done this gracefully if it weren't for the fact that he's a husband now," he confides. "You were correct when you said I couldn't have done it alone."

"Well, you'll never be alone again, love."

"Nor you. I'll walk you to work every day, and on the days I'm not staying there with you, I'll come and pick you up to walk you home."

She leans back and the collar of her dressing gown falls a bit; Charles's eyebrows shoot up as he realizes she's neglected to put anything on underneath it.

Elsie laughs softly at his surprise, then leans in for another kiss.

"Here?" he whispers when he can manage to break away.

"If you like," she replies softly, trailing kisses down his jaw and underneath his ear. "I'm not expected until later in the morning, you remember."

"Right," he manages, capturing her lips once again. "Well, you're stuck with me now, Elsie Carson. I hope you still don't mind."

"Oh, Charles," she whispers, her voice and face full of adoration. "Don't you know?"

He tilts his head quizzically.

"You stole my heart away."

And so it is that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson simply melt into Elsie and Charles once again, living and loving, looking forward to the future with the confidence that stems from knowing that no matter what life will bring them, they'll always have each other.

* * *

 **A/N: It was supposed to be about 20 chapters, as I told meetmeinstlouie way, way back (I think she laughed at me). If you could place one last review in my Inbox, that would be amazing. Thanks to you all.**


	37. Soundtrack and Quotes

**The asterisks mean the item is either not a song at all or is not available on Spotify (but can likely be found on YouTube).**

 **Chapter 1:** _When I Look to the Sky,_ Train

 **Chapter 2:** _Love Will Come to You,_ Indigo Girls

 **Chapter 3:** _Love Song,_ Tesla

 ***Chapter 4:** Quote, "When you can't find the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark." -Unknown

 ***Chapter 5:** _We Will Be A Shelter for Each Other,_ Music by Tom Long; Words by Alan Pote. But if you are _really_ interested and go to the Sheet Music Plus (dot com) website, it's there AND there's an option to listen to it. My church choir singers would love it.

 **Chapter 6:** _Thinking Out Loud,_ Ed Sheeran

 **Chapter 7:** _Just A Kiss,_ Lady Antebellum

 **Chapter 8:** _Dream Child [A Christmas Dream],_ Trans-Siberian Orchestra

 **Chapter 9:** _A Good Child,_ Elton John

 **Chapter 10:** _You've Got A Friend,_ Carole King/James Taylor (version - _Live At the Troubadour_ )

 **Chapter 11:** _Home,_ Daughtry

 **Chapter 12:** _Chasing Cars,_ Snow Patrol

 **Chapter 13:** _November Rain,_ Guns 'N Roses

 **Chapter 14:** _Can't Stay Away from You,_ Gloria Estefan & Miami Sound Machine

 **Chapter 15:** _Nightingale,_ Norah Jones

 **Chapter 16:** _Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel),_ Billy Joel

 **Chapter 17:** Quote, "Loving someone liberates the lover as well as the beloved. And that kind of

love comes with age." -Maya Angelou

 **Chapter 18:** _I Won't Give Up,_ Jason Mraz

 **Chapter 19:** _Water Is Wide (Live),_ Indigo Girls, Jewel, Sarah McLachlan

 **Chapter 20:** _Burning House,_ Cam (thank you, meetmeinstlouie)

 **Chapter 21:** Quote, "You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams." -Dr. Seuss

 **Chapter 22:** _Nightingale,_ Norah Jones (yes, it's a repeat … but a symbolic twist)

 **Chapter 23:** _Home,_ Phillip Phillips

 **Chapter 24:** Quote, "When she is quiet, there is a reason. She is sorting through all the chaos in her head … and all the madness in her heart." -LLK

 **Chapter 25:** _I Won't Give Up,_ Jason Mraz (yes, another repeat)

 **Chapter 26:** _Stay,_ Rihanna feat. Mikky Ekko

 **Chapter 27:** _I've Dreamed of You,_ Barbra Streisand

 **Chapter 28:** _Wait,_ Barbra Streisand

 **Chapter 29:** _The Music That Makes Me Dance,_ Barbra Streisand

 **Chapter 30:** _100 Years,_ Five for Fighting

 **Chapter 31:** _It Must Be You,_ Barbra Streisand

 **Chapter 32:** _Seasons of Love,_ RENT (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

 **Chapter 33:** _Maybe I'm Amazed,_ Paul McCartney

 **Chapter 34:** Quote, "You're my favorite place to go when my mind searches for peace." -Unknown

 **Chapter 35:** Quote, "Love is only gold." -Alfred Lord Tennyson

 **Chapter 36:** _Can You Feel the Love Tonight,_ Elton John


End file.
